


Little Talks

by December_Daughter



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, and then it grew into something else entirely, because I have a head canon that felicity likes brightly colored socks, moving this over from my ff.net account, this started as a one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December_Daughter/pseuds/December_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Felicity is attacked, Oliver realizes that he knows almost nothing about her; in the course of helping her deal with what's happened, he's determined to prove that they are friends - despite Felicity's insistence that it's too complicated. The problem, he soon discovers, is that he wants to be more than just her friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Moving this over here from my FF.net account. It's finished, so no waiting! Yay!

It's the socks.

Felicity is reclining comfortably in the computer chair at the other end of the room, half turned to face her beloved computers. One screen is running some kind of program that he can't identify, but the other is playing what seems to be a movie. He can't see what movie it is, but the words he can hear sound like Shakespeare.

She hasn't heard his approach, all her attention focused on her movie and intermittently dipping a spoon into a small tub of ice cream. She seems perfectly at ease, secreted away in this room under the (admittedly raucous) club above; part of him wonders why she is here, alone, on a Friday night.

He will never admit it aloud, but he really does find Felicity adorable. He tried not to, in the beginning, but she has worn him down: her rambling wouldn't be half as funny if it didn't embarrass her as much as it did, and her awkwardness is refreshing when he's spent the majority of his life surrounded by Starling City's most arrogant and assured.

As adorable as she is on a daily basis, there is something about her now that is not only adorable, but … he doesn't know what to call it. What he does know is that he's been standing in the shadows for at least the last minute, cataloging the way her face lights up with real pleasure at whatever she is watching; he wants to smile at the way her feet, which are propped up on the desk and crossed at the ankles, are bobbing up and down.

The socks are, admittedly, what caught his attention and alerted him that she was not here to work. Where she normally wears her panda flats –and no socks – she is now barefoot except for a pair of colorful socks, which are neon green and patterned with little red stars.

Felicity starts singing, bouncing her head in time with her feet, and this is what finally draws him forward. She is happy, and there is a dark part of him that wants nothing more than to share in that happiness, if even for just a moment.

He crosses the room silently, until he is standing just behind her and has a clear view of the computer screen.

"Is that Shakespeare?"

Felicity squeals, her ice cream and spoon catapulting through the air; in her haste she tries to simultaneously pull in her legs and push herself out of the chair, all of which ends in disaster. He springs forward to catch her, but her weight is unevenly distributed and the chair tips forward and then skitters back, depositing her on her back on the hard floor with an audible _thud_ before he can.

She lays immobile for the length of a few breaths, and when he leans over her he can tell that the wind has been knocked out of her.

"Felicity?" he asks in concern.

She blinks rapidly and answers, still breathless, "Oliver?"

He reaches for her, her smaller hands grasping his forearms, and pulls her carefully to her feet. She is still holding on to him when she tries to hide a wince by ducking her head, but he is observant and they are standing too close for subterfuge.

"Did you hit your head?" he queries quietly.

She hums in assent and he reaches up automatically to run a hand across the back of her head, and it's only then that he realizes that her hair is free of its regular ponytail: she has left it down and it falls now against his hand in flaxen curls as he searches for a bump.

"No bump. I didn't mean to startle you," he says by way of apology.

"You didn't startle me, Oliver, you gave me a heart attack; you took my breath away."

Her head is still bowed, so she doesn't see the way her words strike him, or the look he directs to the crown of her head. She groans then, apparently realizing what she's said, and raises her head to look at him with flushed cheeks and a noticeable consternation.

"That didn't come out the way I wanted it to," she starts. "I meant that literally, not figuratively. Not that you don't, ya know, have that affect, because I'm sure you do … not to me, I mean, but to other … women …"

He can feel the smile tugging at his lips as she sputters to a halt, closing her eyes against her embarrassment. They are still standing too close for his comfort, because Felicity is beautiful under normal circumstances, and these circumstances are anything but.

Oliver releases her and steps away, busying himself with retrieving the ice cream; he can't seem to find the spoon, however, and resolves to look for it later. He turns back to find Felicity reseated in her chair, gingerly rubbing the back of her head.

"What are you doing down here, Felicity?"

He sets the tub of ice cream down on the corner of the desk and then leans against it; Felicity, her blush gone and recovered from her embarrassment, gives him a sheepish grin.

"It's silly."

"Really? And sitting down here, alone on a Friday night, watching Shakespeare and eating ice cream isn't?"

She makes a sound that's half laugh, half sigh. "Fair point. But I'll have you know that I don't really like Shakespeare."

He glances at the computer screen, which is still playing the movie that is clearly one of the Bard's, and then at her.

"Okay, this is the only play of his I like: Much Ado About Nothing."

"Of course," Oliver replied. "It's a comedy, and no one dies."

"You've seen it? Do you like it? Or Shakespeare in general?" The excitement lights up her face, the pain from her fall apparently forgotten. And then, "If you say you like Romeo and Juliet, I swear to God, Oliver, I will stab you with one of your arrows."

Oliver can't contain his laugh then, both at her excitement and the vehemence in her voice as she promises to stab him. Both reactions are purely Felicity, and he enjoys watching how animated she becomes when discussing something she's obviously passionate about.

"I don't like Romeo and Juliet," he assures her, "so no need to stab me. But it's been so long, if I had a favorite, I've forgotten what it was. But you didn't answer me: why are you here?"

Felicity glances away from him, runs a distracted hand through her hair, and forestalls answering. Her eyes have fallen back on her movie, and he's content to let her watch it for a bit before pressing her. She is odd, this little blonde friend of his, and he finds it strangely endearing; she is wildly different from Laurel, different from pretty much all of his friends, and he's lately taken to wondering about all the things that he doesn't know about her.

"Felicity."

She draws her eyes back to him. "I was scared."

That is not the answer he expected, and it sets off warning bells in his head. He pushes off the desk, automatically falling back on his Hood persona and feeling suddenly protective.

"Why?" he demands. "Did something happen?"

"Not to me. But … there've been a few break -ins in my apartment building in the last few weeks and … I was just a little jumpy."

"So you came here?"

"I feel safe here," she admits, shrugging. "Even when you sneak up on me and I end up on my back."

A beat, another sudden flush, and then Felicity is laughing at her newest embarrassment.

This, Oliver realizes, this is Felicity: color and excitement and laughter, intelligence and surprise and honesty. There is no one in his life quite like her, and he's not sure how that makes him feel.

"But why aren't you upstairs?" Felicity asks then. "Shouldn't you be pandering to the socialites of the city?"

"Needed a break," he explains, and something in her face tells him that she understands what he hasn't said.

Felicity reaches out to grab the arm of one of the vacant chairs and pulls it up next to hers, motioning for him to take a seat with a quick nod of her head.

"So take a break," she tells him. "I won't bother you."

Oliver lowers himself into the offered chair, a small part of him surprised to see that she has already turned her full attention back to her movie. She isn't joking about not bothering him; her silence is not a loaded one, or even a hesitant one. For all of her usual chattiness and penchant for rambling, she seems perfectly content to sit in silence – with or without his presence.

He eyes the screen, where a redheaded woman is delivering a soliloquy, but his mind is not on the words: he's thinking about how nice it is to sit in silence, without feeling like he has to fill it; how relaxing it is to be around someone who truly expects nothing from him. Felicity is one of the few people in his life who does not press or pressure him.

Well, that's not entirely true; she does press him, although he's not sure she's always aware of it. She presses him to be a better person, a better friend; she presses him to keep his word, to seek out better ways of doing what he does, to be accountable. Digg does this as well, and together they are perhaps two of his truest – and most severe – friends. They did not know him before the island, like Tommy and Laurel, and so there is no taint of the past on their relationship with him. There is no hurt between them, except what has been lately inflicted, and that's probably another reason that being around them is so much easier than being around old friends; that, and the fact that John Diggle and Felicity Smoak are exceptionally good-hearted people.

This leads his thoughts back to the problem of what has brought Felicity here tonight: he doesn't like the idea of her being frightened out of her own home – or that she feels foolish for being afraid. There is a sweetness and gentility in Felicity that he values greatly, because it reminds him daily of what he's fighting to preserve, and it provokes him greatly to think of her in danger of any sort.

He purposely avoids wondering why that is so, instead telling himself that he feels that way about everyone. Which is true, at least to some extent.

Distracted, Oliver's eyes slide away from the movie and over to the wall, where a previously unnoticed bundle is sitting undisturbed; he recognizes it as a backpack, but he stares at it longer than necessary because he can think of only one reason for it to be there.

"You are not sleeping here."

The words come out much harsher than he's intended, and Felicity's head whips around to look at him before her eyes dart over to the nondescript backpack.

"It's not like I'll be in anyone's way, Oliver," she retorts. "It's the weekend, you …"

"When you said there had been break- ins, what exactly did you mean?" he demands, cutting her off. "Thefts?"

She hesitates before nodding, then adds, "And a few assaults."

He can feel his mouth tightening in displeasure. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Weren't you the one who said you weren't a city watchman, or something to that effect?"

"This isn't a mugging on a city street, Felicity. We're talking about your home, and the fact that whatever is going on has you so scared that you'd rather sleep here, under a nightclub, in the Glades."

They are glaring at each other now; the flickering lights of the computer screen are painting ghostly hollows across the exposed half of Felicity's face, and there is an odd stirring in Oliver's breast. He is upset that she didn't feel comfortable enough with him to say something about the situation, but there is something else working on him: attraction. He is in love with Laurel, and yet he can no longer deny – or ignore – the almost magnetic pull he has to the woman sitting in front of him. She is beautiful, yes, but there's something more to it: it's the pointed glare she gives him when she's angry, just as she's doing now; it's the way she can stand in unflinching opposition to him without being hurtful.

They are glaring at each other, yet there is a very heavy moment in which Oliver feels like it is not anger passing between them.

"You can't stay here," he finally manages, trying to shake the moment. "Where were you planning to sleep?"

"I brought a sleeping bag."

"And where were you gonna put it, exactly? On the floor?"

"Maybe," she says obstinately.

Felicity has an uncanny knack for being completely impossible.

She sighs then, brushes a hand over her hair, and deflates.

"If I go home I won't get any sleep," she admits, and she suddenly looks very tired.

"What were you planning to do after tonight?" he inquires.

"I was gonna ask Digg to help me install a few more locks, maybe some sort of alarm or something."

The information doesn't sit well with him, and it takes him a second to figure out why: it exposes, quietly but clearly, that Felicity feels more comfortable in her friendship with Diggle than with him. She'd planned to not even mention the situation to him, but to ask Digg for help.

Should that bother him? Because it does.

"And if he was busy?"

"I don't know; I would've done it myself, I guess. Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't."

His answer is biting; he's upset because he doesn't understand why she wouldn't trust him enough to come to him for help, and maybe he's even a little disappointed.

Oliver rises to his feet and makes an excuse about having to get back to the club, and he's halfway across the room when Felicity's voice catches him.

"I figured you'd be busy."

He stops, turns partway to look at her and sees that she's also gotten to her feet and taken a few steps away from her chair.

"It is a weekend, so, I just … figured you'd be busy, ya know, with your family, or … well, Laurel."

Felicity is more observant than he gives her credit for sometimes, because she has rightly guessed at the question he didn't ask and supplied the answer, although he doesn't like what that answer implies. She has not only assumed that he'd be with Laurel, but that he would put spending time with Laurel over helping her - even with a matter of safety. He wants to be angry with her for making such an assumption, and part of him is, but he reminds himself that it is not unfounded; he did, after all, choose helping Laurel over helping Digg catch Deadshot not that long ago.

 _Always her,_ Digg had accused, _everyone else be damned._

Felicity, it seems, agrees with the sentiment.

Oliver leaves without making a reply and tells himself that he's just imagining the sudden tightness in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Felicity can't stop staring.

She's not sure how long ago Detective Lance left, or how long she's been standing in the middle of her living room, but she does know that her home is in shambles – and she can't stop staring at the wreckage.

There is a part of her brain that is running through the list of things she needs to do – now, preferably – but that part is being ignored. She might be in shock, at least a little bit, but she doesn't care about that either. Right now all she cares about is that the little world of her apartment has been rocked, and that it now feels tainted, and unsafe.

She finally wills herself into action, but only to cross the room to the bookshelf that occupies the far wall. The piece of furniture itself is still standing, but its contents have been strewn across the floor, and this is what draws her in. Pages have been torn out of books and now lie haplessly on the floor, but she doesn't look at them; she is searching for one book in particular.

Felicity finds her quarry half standing in the corner, propped up by a single corner of the hardcover; she can tell even before she's approached that it has not survived the encounter, and when she picks it up she finds that at least half the pages have been torn out. They are probably the same ones littering her floor.

Tired, aching, Felicity tucks herself into the corner where she found the book and slides down the wall. She pulls her legs up against her chest and stares at the dark leather cover of her book; the silence in her apartment suddenly feels as heavy as her heart, and she does nothing to check the tears that have begun to track their way down her cheek.

Is it considered irony, she wonders, or simply an unfortunate coincidence that her apartment was broken into the very night she mentioned needing better security?

She needs to get started on the cleanup, but she can't bring herself to move out of her corner. She can see broken glass peppering her carpet, glinting in the dying rays of sunlight that filter through her window, and she stares at them for awhile before finally pressing the book into her chest and resting her forehead on her knees.

Felicity doesn't consider herself a materialistic person, but there is a definite sense of loss in her breast at seeing the possessions she has worked so hard to obtain destroyed. She wonders what has been taken and knows that she should inventory her things, for her sake, and because she promised the Detective she would let him know if anything has been stolen, but she pushes the thought away. She needs to get a hold of herself before she can think about moving on, because she feels like something has been lost besides her sense of security.

She tightens her hold on the book and feels the edges bite into her skin; old memories call out to her and she starts counting her breaths, because she doesn't want to remember, and because if she does she will not get out of the corner.

She is on thirty- three when she realizes that someone is saying her name, and although her breath hitches in fear she is too tired to do anything but raise her head off her knees.

Oliver is motionless, staring at her with an expression that darkens as she watches, and his appearance is so incongruous that she can't immediately comprehend it. He looks so clean and put together in his dark jeans, gray t-shirt and leather jacket that the destruction surrounding him seems even worse by contrast.

His mouth is set in a very firm, very straight line as she watches him approach her; his eyes are surveying her, and her mind automatically supplies an image of what she must look like. Black eye, check; busted lip, check; and a few finger shaped bruises around her neck – check.

Oliver crouches down in front of her, one hand reaching out as if to touch her, and then drawing back. "What happened?"

"I interrupted him," she replies, and her voice sounds scratchy. "Surprised him. I, uh, tried to fight, the way … Digg's been teaching, but … thank God for lamps, huh?"

Felicity is well acquainted with Oliver's anger, and she sees it now as it settles over his face like a veil; she can feel it, hanging in the air between them like a storm cloud, and she tries to prepare herself for the backlash. The thing about Oliver is that he doesn't handle emotion well: every emotion ends up looking like anger, no matter what it starts out as.

As capable as she generally is of handling his intensity and anger, Felicity is, at heart, an affectionate and loving person; what she needs right now is not anger, or concern masked as such, but a friend – and, more importantly, someone who can offer her comfort.

She is reminded, not for the first time, that there is no such person for her.

"Felicity …"

"Don't yell," she says quickly, cutting him off. "I'm kind of having a bad day, in case you didn't notice, and I don't think I can handle being yelled at right now, Oliver."

Her words have surprised him, but she is the one caught off guard, because now that's she's started talking, it feels like she can't stop.

"I don't celebrate my birthday – I hate my birthday." She is speaking quickly and it feels like there's a giant bubble working it's way out of her chest and into her throat. "My mom had a heart attack four years ago, and the last time I saw her was on my birthday. We didn't have a lot of money and she'd spent almost all of her savings to buy me this book, a first edition Dickens, and I was so mad I yelled at her and then she died, Oliver, she died and when I came home the stupid book was waiting for me and she wasn't and …"

Felicity can barely breathe through the tightness of her throat and she feels a little bit like she's exploding, so she uncurls herself ever so slightly and let's her once beautiful copy of _Great Expectations_ fall to the floor in front of her feet.

Oliver is reaching for her and for just a second she thinks about slapping his hand away, because this is not Oliver. Well, not the version of Oliver that he allows himself to be around her, at least; for all she knows he is the world's most affectionate man around Laurel, but he is studious about not touching her. She and Oliver do not hug.

Nobody hugs Felicity anymore.

This is what breaks her; she has been attacked, her home defiled, her dearest possession destroyed, but it is the reminder that there is no one to comfort her that finally unhinges her.

There are hands on her arms then, pulling her to her feet, and they do not let go when she starts to struggle – or when she starts to yell.

"What are you doing here, Oliver? I told Detective Lance there was no one to call, there's never anyone to call, not anymore …"

She tries to shove Oliver away from her in a feeble attempt to break free, but her body hurts and her throat is on fire and Oliver's arms are like iron.

Unable to free herself, Felicity does the next best thing, and collapses into his chest.

Her head is pounding and her eye is throbbing and that just makes her cry harder, because the pain grounds her and tells her that she's still alive, when she'd been convinced not that long ago that she was going to die with a stranger's hand around her throat. Oliver's chest is a warm plane beneath her cheek, and he is so much larger that she feels completely engulfed by the arms that are now wrapped around her.

When she finally manages to stop the flow of tears, she pulls away to say something, but stops when she notices that there is blood on Oliver's t-shirt. She touches the spot gingerly, unable to process the bright spot of color against the grey, and feels him take a breath under her hand.

"I, um … I think I got blood on your shirt."

"It's just a shirt."

She feels his words as a rumble against her hand, and then there is a finger under her chin, turning her face up to his.

"Your lip is bleeding," he tells her.

"He had a pretty fierce backhand."

She knows she's said the wrong thing before she's finished speaking, but there's no helping it.

She can hear the barely contained rage in his voice when he speaks. "Come on."

He leads her to the couch and motions for her to sit, then disappears into the kitchen; when he reappears he sits down next to her, wet rag and a frozen pack of peas in hand.

"Put this over your eye," he instructs, handing her the peas. "And hold still."

She flinches when the peas come in contact with her eye, the sensation distracting her from the sting of the rag against her lip.

Only now will Felicity admit that she is exhausted, truly and to her very core, but she's not sure that she will ever feel safe enough again to sleep – not here.

"What are you doing here, Oliver?" she queries again, rerouting her train of thought. "How did you even know where I lived?"

"I came to see if you needed help with those locks; when I got here, your door was open." He doesn't answer the second question.

"It was?" She thinks she can remember Detective Lance saying something about the doorframe being damaged, but the last few hours are a tangled mess that she doesn't even want to consider untangling right now. "Well, thank you, but you don't have to stay, Oliver – I'm fine."

His eyes shoot to her face so quickly that she almost thinks she can hear a snapping sound.

"Yeah, okay, or not."

"I'm gonna call Digg," he tells her quietly. "Have him bring over some stuff to help put this place back together."

Felicity wants to protest, but she can't find the words; instead, she watches him pull his phone from his pocket and disappear into another room, and then curls into the corner of her couch and tries to turn off her brain.

 

                      --------

 

Something is crashing, and she is screaming.

Her body is on fire as overtaxed muscles catapult her up and away, but she's disoriented and has no sense of where she is; a sharp pain radiates up her back and then she is falling.

"Felicity! Whoa, whoa!"

Reality comes to her slowly, and when it does she finds that the only thing keeping her from the floor is Oliver. She gathers that she must have thrown herself over the arm of her couch in panic, and that Oliver caught her mid-fall.

"Where am I?"

"You're at home, you're okay," he tells her, helping her to her feet (again). "I didn't mean to wake you."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Maybe thirty minutes."

She is facing the door, her back to Oliver, when there's a knock and the still unlatched door swings inward. For the second time in less than a minute she is throwing herself backward, right into Oliver's chest, and the arm that wraps around her waist is almost enough to distract her from the fact that she is literally trembling.

The man on the other side of the door is Digg.

"Oh my god, I can't take this," she utters, and it's all she can do not to cry.

"What happened?" Digg demands, stepping inside.

"I think I'm dying." She's gasping, but the air won't stay in her lungs and she can't stop trembling. "I can't breathe, I can't …"

"Focus, Felicity; take a breath. It's just Digg; you're okay, you're safe."

She's trying to do as he says, trying to count her breaths to calm herself down, but she can feel Digg's eyes taking in her injuries and for just a moment she remembers being pinned to the floor.

"What happened?"

She gets the feeling that Digg was asking Oliver, but she can feel the hysteria rising and her words are spilling out before she can think of what she's saying.

"I caught him by surprise, I interrupted him and he struck me ... hard … I tried to stop him, but he had me by the throat and I thought I was dying and …"

The look on Digg's face is so mortified that it halts her rambling; she focuses on his face, and the arm around her waist, using both to remind herself that she has probably never been safer in her life than she is right now.

"I'm assuming you got my message?" Oliver asks over her head, and Digg nods.

She doesn't think she can stay in this room for much longer.

"I'll … you guys can … I think I need a shower."

Felicity isn't entirely certain how she gets out of the room; it almost feels like she blinks and finds herself standing in the bathroom, a fresh change of clothes in hand. She thinks she might be losing her mind, and she's still shaking from the adrenaline that lingers in her system; tension is all that's keeping her together, but that tension is slipping and she can feel herself about to fall apart.

Which is why she's run to the bathroom, because she's had about all that she can take, and the last thing she wants is to have an audience to her breakdown. Well, _another_ audience to _another_ breakdown, anyway.

She turns on the water, adjusts the temperature and then steps away to undress; she shucks out of her clothes without thinking, but makes the mistake of glancing at herself in the mirror as she pulls the hair tie out of her hair. She really does look terrible: her eye is not swollen shut, but it has turned an admirable shade of violet, and her lip isn't bleeding anymore but it is definitely split. Worse than all of that, though, are the bruises that have bloomed against the skin of her throat in the perfect shape of fingers; pointer, middle and ring, if she's not mistaken.

The reflection is too much.

The water burns as she steps into the flow, and she hisses in pain when it strikes her face but doesn't turn away. She needs this burn, needs to feel the way her skin crawls with the intensity of it.

She goes through the motions, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and conditioner and body wash, ignoring the tears that she knows are falling – even if she can't feel them.

She spends a long time under the water, even after she's clean, because she doesn't know how to face the world outside her shower; Felicity isn't sure how to handle what's happened, or the tight knot of fear in her breast, or the thought of having almost lost her life.

When she does finally emerge, she's in a pair of leggings and a tank top, and it's only when Digg utters a muffled curse that she realizes that one of her arms is also peppered with bruises.

She's too tired to care.

"Either you guys work really fast, or I was in there longer than I thought."

Digg is working on the doorframe, and Oliver is on the other end installing what looks like new hinges; there's no longer glass and torn paper littering the floor.

"A little bit of both," Oliver answers, and she knows that despite the gravity of his tone, he is trying to tease her.

"What time is it?" she inquires.

"A little past one," Digg answers. "Why?"

"Haven't eaten since yesterday," Felicity replies off-handedly. "I was thinking pizza."

"Better get enough for all of us."

"Thanks, guys, but you didn't have to do this. I'm sure you've got better …"

"Don't finish that sentence, Felicity," Oliver warns, and there is something dark in his tone that heightens the sentiment behind the words.

She nods and turns away, reaching for the phone so that she can order the pizza.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver can hear her moving around behind him as she takes stock of what has been damaged, compiling a list of anything missing so that she can hand it over to the police. She has been quiet for the last few minutes, and he and Digg have come to a silent agreement not to bother her for a bit. They keep their seats on the couch, an almost empty pizza box on the coffee table in front of them, and the television turned on.

Felicity's door is fixed and they have made sure to install not one, but two additional locks. He plans to ask her about installing an alarm, but not right now; right now she's still trying to process everything, so he'll bring it up a little later – or just take the liberty of installing one whether she wants it or not.

"I think it's safe to assume that the guy wasn't big on books."

Felicity's voice is even, controlled, possibly the calmest it's been since he's arrived, and it pulls his attention to her. She's standing in front of her bookcase, her copy of _Great Expectations_ clasped gently in her hands. Oliver hadn't known what to do with the pages that'd been ripped out, so he'd just tucked them inside the front cover so that she could decide what to do with them later; he watches as she opens said cover and stares at the leafs of paper.

"What's that?" Digg prompts, rising to cross the room and stand next to her.

"It's a first edition Dickens, and worth more than anything else in this apartment. Which, I'm guessing, he didn't know, or he wouldn't have destroyed it and stolen it instead."

Oliver waits for her to mention the part about it being a birthday present, but she doesn't; it's entirely possible that she doesn't even remember telling him that part, because she was nearly hysterical when she did. It's also entirely possible that that might not be something she wants them to know, because Felicity is a private person, and he saw the way the memory affected her.

"Strange, isn't it?" she asks, but he's not sure if she's asking them or the air.

"What?" Digg replies.

"The things we assign meaning to. Makes it hard, sometimes, to know if we truly love the thing for what it is, or for what we've made it out to be. This book is valuable on its own, but my memories are what make it priceless."

Digg skips a beat before speaking again. "What are you gonna do with it?"

"Keep it; it doesn't mean any less to me just because it's damaged."

Oliver has kept his silence throughout their exchange, at first because he wasn't sure what to say, and now because Felicity has left him speechless. Her words have struck a chord with him in ways that she couldn't possibly imagine, which makes them all the more remarkable; she is his opposite in countless ways, and yet he is starting to see that she may be the person who has the capacity to understand him the best – if given the opportunity.

Digg's phone rings then and Oliver hears him excuse himself, and he disappears out the door and into the hallway. He can't hear what Digg is saying, but he knows from the tone and quiet way he's speaking that it's Carly on the other end.

"Oliver?"

Felicity circles around the couch and sits down on the end opposite of him; he doesn't say anything, waiting for her to say whatever it is that's weighing on her and trying not to focus on the bruises.

"I didn't mean to imply, earlier, that I don't have any friends."

"What?" he says in surprise.

"Earlier, when I said there was no one to call … I didn't mean that I don't have any friends, because I do, obviously … I just, I more meant that I don't have anyone like you."

Felicity sighs in irritation, and he's been around her long enough to know that she's just realized that her words haven't come out the way she meant them to.

"Not like that," she corrects herself. "I seriously think this could be considered a speech impediment, and I'm just gonna stop talking now because you're sort of giving me the pity look and that is the last thing I need right now, Oliver."

"I don't pity you, Felicity," he answers carefully. "I'm just trying to understand you."

"What's there to understand?"

"Why didn't you call me? Or Digg?"

"And what if I had, Oliver? What if I had called and you'd been with your family, or Laurel? What would you have done? Excused yourself, told them it was work?"

"Yes."

"That's just it, Oliver; we're not friends, at least not publicly. And how can we be? How would you even begin to explain such a friendship? I'm the IT girl, Oliver, nobody – there's no way that we can be friends without raising questions. The sort of questions that none of us wants asked."

He can see by the expression on her face that she isn't being altruistic, that her words are not coming from a sense of martyrdom; she is being rational, and her words make sense, but they leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Digg is only slightly less complicated, Oliver – for all intents and purposes, he's your bodyguard, and while a friendship between us would be a little easier to explain, it's still rife with difficulties."

"So you're saying we can't be friends because it's too difficult?"

"I'm saying that the last thing you need in your life is another lie. Or, at best, a half truth."

How interesting – and positively infuriating, actually – to find that she has not only given their friendship (or lack thereof) this much thought, but that she is worried enough about adding another lie to his stack that she wasn't even willing to reach out to him when she'd been attacked.

His mind casts back to last night, when she'd admitted that she was going to ask Digg for help with the locks, and do it herself if he was busy. He has noticed, in the time that they've been working together, that friendship seems to come easier to Digg and Felicity than it does to the two of them, but he honestly hadn't thought about it much past that. He's been busy trying to juggle the two sides of his life, of himself, and anything outside of that has just sort of been pushed aside; which, he's now starting to see, includes a friendship with Felicity.

He also hadn't realized until last night that he actually wanted to be her friend, outside of their work.

"I know you think you can do it all, Oliver," Felicity says softly, gently. "But everyone has a limit, and I think you've just about found yours."

He wants to argue with her, but he's not sure he can. Brilliant, observant Felicity; she's on the edges of his life – both lives – looking in, and now here she is, telling him what he already knows: that he can't have it all, and that the lines are coming dangerously close to colliding.

Digg steps back into the apartment, an apologetic look on his face.

"That was Carly, we're supposed to be at a party in an hour."

"That's great," Felicity says brightly, smiling for the first time in hours. "Have a fantastic time."

"You're welcome to come stay with me, Felicity, until this guy is caught," Digg offers.

"I'll be fine, Digg, really. Thank you, though, for all your help."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

Oliver knows that she won't.

Digg nods in response to his thanks and then disappears; he isn't gone more than a few seconds when Felicity turns to him, the very picture of calm.

"I think I'd like to be alone now, Oliver."

He doubts very much that she wants to be alone, not truly, but he can't – or won't – call her on it. He knows that she is following through on what she said earlier, that they can't be friends, and that this is her way of drawing a line between them.

Oliver stands and reaches for his jacket, heads for the door before stopping to face Felicity again; "I had Digg bring over a Taser, just in case. It's in the kitchen."

"Thanks. I'll see you on Monday."

His thoughts are a jumbled mess as he makes his way out of her apartment building and to his bike. Leaving her alone grates on him, because she's been through a lot today and he knows the terror of believing that you're life is about to come to an end.

Oliver knows exactly what it feels like to be battered, bruised, and alone.

Evening has fallen across the city; he's picking Laurel up for dinner at eight, which means that he's dangerously close to being late, but he doesn't speed up. There is a tight knot of unease in his chest, and he needs the time the drive allows him to gather his thoughts – and to stop replaying Felicity's words.

The thing is, that despite what she said or how much her words make sense, Oliver knows that Felicity is his friend. He knows it instinctively, just like he knew that she wouldn't reveal his secret when she found him bleeding in her car; he can see it every time he comes back to the Foundry and she gives him that concerned look.

He felt it last night, when he'd professed needing a break, and she'd offered him one, no questions asked.

Last night. Their conversation about Shakespeare, her colorful socks, it all seems like it happened weeks ago, instead of only hours. He can hear her voice clearly in his head, threatening to stab him if he likes Romeo and Juliet; he can see the look on her face when she'd admitted to being afraid.

Oliver directs his bike down the driveway and into the garage on autopilot. He dismounts, props his helmet on the leather seat and then strides toward the mansion, unzipping his jacket as he goes. He needs to change quickly; he's had these dinner reservations for a week, and can't afford to make them late.

He also needs to stop thinking about Felicity. She asked to be alone, and he has always respected her wishes, and that's the end of it.

Oliver sweeps in through the front door, intending to take the stairs two at a time, when a voice stops him.

"Ollie!"

He turns to find Thea making her way toward him.

"Hey, I was just watching the news and … is that blood?"

"What?"

"Is that blood, on your shirt?"

Oliver glances down at himself and finds the smear of blood on his chest, now a dark maroon against the flat gray of his shirt; he thinks he can feel, if only for a moment, the warmth of Felicity's hand resting against his chest.

"I cut my finger earlier, it's nothing," he says automatically.

"You cut your finger?" Thea repeats, and he can hear the disbelief in her voice.

_I'm the IT girl, Oliver, nobody_ , a voice whispers in the back of his mind.

"Okay, that's not true. A friend of mine got hurt earlier – the blood's not mine."

"Hurt how?"

"Why does it matter, Thea?"

"Well I was just watching the news, and some girl got attacked earlier – the police say she got beat up pretty badly. They also mentioned that she worked for you. Now here you are, blood on your shirt – quite a coincidence."

Oliver sighs. "Her name is Felicity."

"Is she okay?"

"She's … safe. I'm supposed to meet Laurel for dinner, Thea, I gotta go."

He turns and bounds up the stairs, cursing when he glances at his watch long enough to see that he is definitely going to be late.

"How do you know?" Thea yells at his retreating form. "How do you know she's safe?"

He pretends not to hear her.

                                                -------------

Oliver raps gently on the gray door in front of him.

He can hear soft footfalls moving toward him; there's a pause, and then the door is swinging away from him.

"Oliver?"

"I didn't wake you." It's a statement, not a question, because he can see that despite the exhaustion that is written into every line of her body, Felicity hasn't slept.

"It's almost one in the morning, Oliver; what are you doing here?" she demands, her expression dubious.

"Can I come in?"

"No. I told you, I'm fine."

"Good, then it won't matter if I come in."

Oliver is fully prepared to wait out the staring contest that he knows is coming; when Felicity just breathes a quiet sigh and steps aside to let him in, he knows that he's made the right choice in coming back, because she is not fine.

"Why aren't you asleep, Felicity?"

"Is that why you've shown up at my door at one a.m., Oliver – to interrogate me?"

Her words are sharp, the anxiety and sleep deprivation setting her on edge.

"No."

"Then quit it. I'm not in the mood for twenty questions."

"I know; I'm sorry."

She doesn't reply, just moves to the spot on the couch that he's guessing she hasn't left in the hours that she's been alone; he slips out of his jacket without being asked to and then seats himself beside her. Her apartment is dark, the only light coming from the television, where a movie has been paused. When she presses the play button, he is greeted once again with Shakespeare.

"Much Ado About Nothing?" he queries, recognizing the redheaded woman on the screen.

"It makes me feel better," she answers softly.

Oliver takes her in: her hair is down, wavy and unkempt, her eyes red and tired behind her glasses; she's still in the tank top from earlier, her bruises like gruesome shadows against her skin.

Her feet, which she's tucked up to one side, are hidden in a pair of pink and white-checkered socks.

He hasn't been here five minutes and already the unease in his breast has lessened. The anger is still there, exacerbated by every glance at his tiny bruised friend, but he can deal with that later; right now, it's important that he is here with her, even though she would have him believe that it isn't. Whether she admits it or not, Oliver knows that Felicity is afraid, and that she doesn't feel safe enough to sleep – no matter how tired she may be.

_I don't have anyone like you._

"Why are you here, Oliver?"

A plethora of responses come to mind: because he had no other way of making sure she was safe; because leaving her alone was wrong, no matter how he tried to spin it; because he'd spent the majority of his date with Laurel trying to forget the feeling of her trembling in his arms, or the way she'd screamed and thrown herself off her couch when he'd frightened her awake.

None of those are acceptable answers, though, for more reasons than he's ready to admit.

"Because you need me," he says instead.

She turns her head away from the television and their eyes meet; her expression is tense for only a second before the mask falls away, and he can plainly see how grateful she is to have him here. He'd stood outside Laurel's door and turned down her offer to spend the night, fought with whether or not he should just go to bed, and finally ended up outside her door; the way she is looking at him now reassures him that he made the right choice.

"So," he starts, trying to put her at ease, "Are you going to tell me what's wrong with Romeo and Juliet?"

"Eventually," she retorts, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "Baby steps. Tonight, I'm gonna show you what's right with Much Ado."

Felicity navigates back to the movie menu and starts it over, settling deeper into the cushions as the image on the screen blinks out and reappears at the opening credits. Oliver kicks off his shoes – again without being invited to do so – and then props both feet up on her coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. Felicity glances sidelong at him, one eyebrow arched at his presumption, and he rewards her with a smile. She doesn't hold out long before returning the smile and turning her attention back to the television screen. He follows her example.

Oliver is surprised to find that he's actually interested in the movie, and he's so focused on trying to follow the premise that he can't help but be drawn in by it.

He's so focused on what he's watching that it takes him a minute to realize what's happened; it's the warmth against his side that finally catches his attention.

Not even fifteen minutes into the movie and Felicity is sound asleep; she's slowly slid her way down the couch, until coming to rest gently against him. She is at an awkward angle, one that looks horribly uncomfortable, and he tells himself that is why he's doing what he's about to.

Oliver scoots down into the couch until he's comfortable and then carefully lifts his arm, draping it gently across Felicity's waist and pulling her slowly to him until her head is pillowed against his chest. She doesn't so much as stir.

The rise and fall of Felicity's side a gentle rhythm beneath his arm, Oliver settles in to finish her beloved movie.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, my loves! Everyone ready for the next chapter? It's a bit lighter, because our dear Felicity needed a bit of a break. I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing this chapter, so I hope you have just as much fun reading it. As always, thank you so much for reading, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this installment.
> 
> Allons-y!

"I'm still pissed at you."

Felicity sighs and rolls her eyes.

"I'm aware."

"Why didn't you call me, Lis? You know I would've been there in a heartbeat."

"Yes, and then never would have left."

"Oh and I suppose that you're gonna sit there and tell me that you wanted to be alone, in your apartment, after being brutally assaulted?"

Felicity opens her mouth to fire off a retort, but the look on her friend's face stops her. Kylie may look like a tattooed version of Audrey Hepburn on the outside, but on the inside she is all volcanic energy; she is the very definition of ferocity, neatly packaged into a five- foot- three- inch frame.

She can see that Kylie is angry, but it's what's underneath the anger that halts her words: genuine concern, and maybe even a little hurt.

"I'm sorry, Ky," she says softly, contrite. "I just didn't want to …"

"If the next words out of your mouth are anything like 'bother you', so help me God, Felicity Megan Smoak, I will dangle you from the roof by your bra strap," Kylie snaps.

"That's the most inventive threat I've ever heard."

The air freezes in her lungs.

Felicity is very certain that she would like nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide, because she recognizes that voice and it is not Kylie's.

When she glances up, it's to see none other than Oliver Queen standing mere inches from their table, arms crossed over his chest and an amused glint in his eye.

"Granted, it'd be more effective if this wasn't a single story building."

"Fair point. And do you have a name, or should I just call you 'Mr. Man Cake?'" Kylie answers.

"Oh my God," Felicity groans, dropping her head into her hands in embarrassment.

Oliver, however, is laughing. "Man Cake?"

"Well, you are delicious looking."

"Kylie, you are dead to me!" Felicity hisses through her hands, but Kylie is grinning and just waves her hand dismissively at her.

"I'm Oliver Queen; and you are?"

"Smitten."

Felicity drops her arms on the tabletop and then her head, inwardly writhing in embarrassment. Most of the time, she enjoys Kylie's outrageous antics and the situations they create, but this is definitely not one of those times; right now, she'd like nothing more than to knock her tiny friend unconscious and escape out the back door.

"I'm Kylie," she can hear her friend introducing, "And this blushing young maid is Felicity. We were just discussing her current state of loneliness."

"'Alone' is not synonymous with 'lonely'," Felicity says quickly, lifting her head to glare at Kylie.

"Are you lonely, Felicity?" Oliver asks, his tone somewhere between teasing and troubled.

Oliver does not tease often – at least, not her – but she can tell by the quirk of his mouth that he is doing exactly that. She has the distinct feeling that he's laughing at her, and yet there is a tense undercurrent to his tone when he asks if she's lonely. He's scanning her face, although she knows not what he's searching for, and she wonders if she's imagining the electricity passing between them.

"Are you signing up to keep her company, Oliver?" Kylie queries saucily.

Felicity's face is aflame; she's convinced that if she were to glance under the table at that very moment, even her feet would be blushing.

"I hate you," she tells Kylie sweetly.

"You always know what I want to hear." Kylie grins and shoots her a wink, unperturbed.

"Felicity," a new voice says then. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, of course," Felicity groans.

Digg has appeared next to Oliver, glancing from her to Kylie and then to where Oliver is still standing.

"Kylie, this is John Diggle. Digg, this is Kylie."

Felicity jumps on the introductions before her friend can make a comment, because she's known Kylie long enough to recognize the devilish glint that has appeared in her eye. She's already so embarrassed that her skin is practically crawling, and the last thing she needs is a repeat of the "man cake" moment.

"You three know each other?" Kylie questions, motioning between them.

"We're friends," Oliver answers calmly.

Kylie's laughter is sudden and unhindered as she takes in the reality of the situation, and her friend's nearly magenta cheeks. Digg looks perfectly confused, but Felicity is too mortified to offer any sort of explanation.

"Well," Kylie says when she's managed to contain her laughter, "Now that I've secured Lis' hatred, would you guys like to join us?"

Felicity is fully expecting Oliver to make some sort of excuse, assuming that he and Digg have come to the diner to make plans for the evening that are decidedly … private; hearing him graciously accepting Kylie's offer, then, is a surprise that she's not sure how to interpret.

Kylie is dynamic, self-assured, and admittedly hard to resist – there aren't many people who can refuse her (if they're even given the chance), so Felicity isn't surprised when Oliver allows himself to be pulled into the booth next to her.

Felicity smiles at Digg and scoots over.

"So what are you beautiful ladies up to this afternoon?" Digg asks, glancing from Felicity to Kylie.

"Well, since my wonderful Lis, here, is an ass, I had to hear about what happened from the news," Kylie replies. "So, of course, I dropped everything and drove up here."

"So you don't live in Starling City?" Oliver prompts.

"Not anymore. I'm about half an hour away from here; got offered a better job."

"And what is it you do?"

"I'm a chemist."

"A chemist?" Digg repeats, surprised.

"What can I say," Kylie says with a shrug, "I like explosions."

"Almost as much as she likes causing them," Felicity jests, earning her a wide grin from the other girl.

"Everyone plays to their talents, Lis."

Felicity can feel eyes on her, and she glances up to find that Oliver is watching her with a look that she can't place. Undecipherable, that look, but not unfamiliar: she's seen it several times since last weekend, and even once or twice before that.

In truth, Felicity is having a hard time discerning the strange new tone their relationship seems to be taking. She hadn't realized it at the time, but things have felt different ever since last weekend, when he'd shown up at her door in the middle of the night; she'd woken up the next morning, unable to pinpoint when she'd actually fallen asleep, and he'd been gone.

Neither of them had mentioned it.

Carly comes to take their orders and refill Felicity's coffee cup, and Felicity says a silent prayer of thanks that Kylie doesn't seem to notice the looks exchanged between her and Digg. She's not sure how well the ex-soldier would take to being teased by her rabid pixie of a friend.

"So what is there to do here these days, boys?"

Kylie's tone is jovial and paired with a bright smile, and Felicity watches as it draws answering mirth from Digg and Oliver. She is accustomed to their usual (respective) brands of seriousness, so it makes the transformation rather striking; Digg and Oliver are handsome men, but their smiles make them striking.

"Depends on what you want to do," Oliver supplies, "But if you really are planning on hanging Felicity from a building, I'd suggest the business district."

For just a second Felicity forgets who she's with, so her reaction defaults to what it would be if she were responding to Kylie: she makes a face and wags her head in mock irritation.

She's not sure who starts laughing first – Digg, or Oliver – but it's enthusiastic enough that it makes her blush.

Perhaps it's their laughter that suddenly makes Felicity realize how austere her life has become since Kylie left.

Carly reappears with their food, much to Kylie's pleasure; she nearly smacks Oliver in the face in her haste to take the offered dish, utters a quick apology, and snaps up a few fries.

"I'm not saving you if you choke," Felicity tells her seriously.

"There are worse ways to die."

Kylie freezes with a fry halfway to her mouth, clearly distressed by what she's said. Her eyes flick down to the bruises at Felicity's neck – faded yellow and mostly hidden by make-up, but still visible – and back up to Felicity's face.

Felicity doesn't miss the way Oliver's shoulders tense across the table, or the subtle draw of Digg's face.

"Lis," Kylie says quietly, diminished. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know," Felicity answers quickly, smiling. "It's okay, Ky; I'm okay."

Kylie looks ready to argue, because Felicity knows that she can't hide anything from this girl who's been her friend basically all her life, but she seems to let the lie slide.

"Anyway," Kylie segues, brightening again. "I was sort of hoping to drag Ms. Computer Geek to a club or something, since it's Friday and everything. Recommendations?"

"Oh no," Felicity counters before Oliver or Digg can answer, "You most certainly are not."

"Felicity, what is in your DVD player right now?" Kylie's tone is both forceful and knowing.

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me, little lady. Answer the question."

"Much Ado About Nothing."

"Exactly. You and me, we have a date with a club and my sexy friend Johnny."

"Your sexy friend Johnny?" Oliver interjects, arching an eyebrow.

"Johnny Walker."

Digg, all traces of seriousness erased, grins and pokes Felicity gently in the side with his elbow. She's never seen her friend so at ease, and that alone is enough to make her smile in return, and she takes a chance and nudges his thick arm with her shoulder.

"I didn't take you for a drinker, Felicity," he teases.

"I'm not," she retorts. "Usually."

"Cause she's a lightweight," Kylie informs them. "Last time I took her out I nearly had her talked into getting a tattoo."

Oliver is studying her again: she can feel the weight of his gaze, and though she tries not to, she can't resist bringing her eyes up to meet him. Not for the first time she wonders what it is that he's thinking; what is it that draws his gaze?

What does he see when he looks at her?

"Verdant," Oliver says suddenly, finally taking his gaze from Felicity and redirecting it to Kylie.

"What's verdant?"

"It's a club," Digg answers.

"My club," Oliver amends, but there is no smugness in his tone. "So you're guaranteed a table."

"Perfect!" Kylie crows, even as Felicity is opening her mouth to decline the offer. "What about you guys?"

"What about us?" Digg answers.

"You two look like you could use a night out, so come with us. Bring the girlfriends – do you have girlfriends?"

Felicity dissolves into laughter, both at her friend's brazenness, and at the looks that her question has brought into being. In Kylie's defense, she has no idea that such a simple question has such a complicated answer: Digg has Carly, the ex-wife of his murdered brother, and Oliver sort-of has Laurel, if they can ever find a way to get past the ghost of Tommy.

_I wonder what Kylie would say,_ Felicity thinks then, _if she knew that I'm ridiculously attracted to a millionaire who's in love with another woman and moonlights as a vigilante?_

"There's nothing subtle about you, is there, Ky?" Felicity teases.

"Not my fault you're friends with total studs," comes the reply, and Felicity is blushing again.

"One of these days I'm gonna buy you a muzzle."

"Promises, promises. So, boys; what do you say?"

"Carly and I have plans," Digg answers, "So I'll have to decline. Have one for me."

"Carly?" Kylie repeats. "As in Carly, the hot waitress who brought us our food?"

Felicity thinks John Diggle might be blushing.

"Hell yeah! You go enjoy your plans, John Diggle, and make sexy babies with your sexy waitress."

"Oh my God, Kylie," Felicity sighs in exasperation.

Kylie, of course, ignores her.

"What about you, Man Cake?"

"Where did you find this girl, Felicity?" Digg asks amidst his chuckling.

"Stole her from a zoo," Felicity replies. "They were desperate to get rid of her."

Kylie flips her off without looking at her.

"I'll be there," Oliver assures them, smiling at Kylie.

Should she find it strange that he makes no mention of Laurel?

"Excellent! You're gonna have the time of your life, Oliver Queen."

"We are so doomed," Felicity mumbles, but she's smiling.

                                                --------

Felicity has never actually been to Verdant in its capacity as a nightclub; by now she's usually sequestered downstairs, her eyes glued to a computer screen while her peers are busy grinding the night away. She believes in the work she does for the Hood, or else she wouldn't be doing it, but she can't deny that it feels good to be above ground tonight.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say this place is pretty popular."

Kylie is staring at the line to get in, one perfectly plucked eyebrow arched as she measures up the people waiting.

"Good thing we know the Man Cake that calls himself Boss, huh?"

"Would you stop calling him that," Felicity entreats. "I do work for him, you know."

"Yes, and I can't believe that you've never mentioned how stunning he is. Really, Lis, have I taught you nothing? Never mind; come on."

Kylie flips her dark hair, luscious and perfectly curled, over one of her bare shoulders and slips her hand into Felicity's. She tugs her forward, away from the line and straight up to the very formidable looking man acting as bouncer.

"Hi! We're on the list," she says without preamble. "Kylie Ward and Felicity Smoak."

The bouncer checks his list, then lifts the red velvet rope and ushers them in with a smile.

"Enjoy your evening, ladies."

"Thanks!" Felicity manages to retort before being dragged inside.

The club is already packed, awash with undulating bodies and the flash of strobe lights. The music is loud and, admittedly, infectious; in front of her, Kylie is so excited she's nearly hopping in her six inch heels.

"This is fantastic!" she half yells to Felicity. "Let's get some drinks and find our table!"

They skirt the dance floor, hands still interlocked, until they find an open spot at the bar. Felicity watches as the bartender glances in their direction, and then does a quick double take before making a beeline for them. She can't resist smiling: Kylie has this effect on most of the people she comes into contact with. She is confident, yes, but she's also remarkably beautiful with her delicate features and loud tattoos. All of which are artfully displayed by her choice of dress, a sleek, pink, strapless number.

Kylie shouts their order to the bartender and then half turns so that she can see both Felicity and the bartender.

"I can't believe you've never been here!" she admonishes. "I wish this place would've been here before I moved!"

Felicity smiles but doesn't reply. She knows exactly what would've happened if Verdant had been here years ago: Kylie would have dragged her here at least every other weekend, and she would probably have ended up with that tattoo after all.

Not that tattoos are bad; she just isn't sure she could rock them the way Kylie does. In fact, Felicity rather likes tattoos, especially ones like …

She shut that thought down so forcefully that she almost flinched.

"Johnny has arrived!"

Kylie saves her from similar thoughts by holding out a cold glass, filled nearly to the brim with murky liquid; she takes it and, after touching glasses with her friend in a wordless toast, takes a long pull.

"Ah, sweet nectar!" Kylie exclaims. "Now where the hell is that table?"

They find their table in the corner, closest to the bathroom and furthest away from the speakers, and Felicity reminds herself to thank Oliver the next time she sees him.

The girls take their seats, side by side so that they can look out onto the dance floor, and work on their drinks.

"So, the bouncer was absolutely checking you out."

Felicity laughs. "Drunk already, Ky?"

"Don't do that, Lis."

"What?"

"Belittle yourself, even passive aggressively. You're beautiful, and you're rocking the shit out of that dress."

She chuckles and shakes her head, one hand unconsciously smoothing nonexistent ruffles out of her dress. She'd debated for some time over what to wear, and she'd almost gone with a red one before Kylie had stepped in and insisted she wear the blue. Felicity had loved this dress from the moment she'd seen it on the hangar: sky blue and unadorned, it left one of her shoulders bare and fell to mid-thigh. This was the first time she'd actually worn it, and it had taken many reassurances from Kylie that the bruises on her arm were faded enough to escape notice; for the one around her eye and on her neck, there was make-up.

Still, Felicity knows the marks are there, and it leaves her feeling less than confident – especially in the light of Kylie's near-perfection.

Kylie throws back the rest of her drink and looks to Felicity, waving her hand in a motion that she takes to be the sign to hurry up.

"C'mon, let's dance!"

Felicity shrugs – what the hell, right? – and empties her glass. She barely has time to set it down before being pulled onto the dance floor.

She is a generally quiet person, but there is something very freeing about finding herself in the middle of a dance floor, the steady beat of the music drowning out every thought. She has had a rough week, but she can forget about that for the moment; right now, she's just a girl in a club with her best friend, dancing as if she doesn't have a care in the world.

When the song switches and Kylie professes a desire for another drink, Felicity offers to pay and heads for the bar after promising to meet Kylie at their table.

It takes her a minute to find an opening, but when she does she's pleased to find that she's almost directly in front of the bartender. He seems to recognize her when he looks up, so she gives him a wide grin and orders another round.

"You're the hottest thing I've seen all night."

Felicity just barely stops herself from groaning; instead, she rolls her eyes and turns to find herself being leered at by a somewhat good looking, and completely creepy sort of fellow.

"That's the worst line I've heard all night," she fires back, and she can't help it if sounds a little like a snarl.

"You need to come home with me, I could show you a good time," the stranger presses.

"Sorry, I'm gonna have to decline."

She starts to turn back to the bar, where the bartender is just finishing with her order, when a sweaty hand wraps around the skin above her wrist. Felicity sucks in a breath, because several of his fingers are pressing into her bruises, and they are faded but still painful; in the same instant, that breath freezes in her throat and she sees a different face. She feels again the beefy fingers at her throat, the sting of knuckles as they collide with her face, and she can't move.

"Take your hand off her, before I break it."

Oliver's voice is dark and dangerous, and possibly the most beautiful thing she's ever heard. She has no idea where he's come from or when he appeared, but he's beside her now and his steely gaze is fixed on the man who has her arm.

"I think you're bluffing, pretty boy," the man sneers.

The shadows around Oliver seem to shrink, as if he's taking in their darkness, and when he steps forward to invade the other man's space he looks almost feral.

He says only one word, and yet it is terrifying. "Now."

The stranger releases her arm and Felicity snaps it back to herself, pressing it against her stomach; she has the vague impression that Oliver has called one of the bouncers over to escort the man out, but she's having a hard time focusing. She feels very hot all of a sudden, and the swaying mass of bodies around her seems almost crushing.

Oliver is beside her then, one arm slipping around her waist, and he's guiding her away from the bar and the people and into the open air.

She is trembling.

"Felicity," he says gently, "Hey, look at me. You're okay."

His hands come up to cradle her face, but she's feeling disoriented so she flinches.

"You're okay," he repeats, turning her face up so that she's looking at him and not the ground. "Breathe, Felicity."

She focuses on his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth, anything to bring herself back to the present. His hands are cool against her heated cheeks, and he's standing close enough that she can smell mint on his breath. She takes in all this information in a matter of seconds, but it's not enough, so she reaches up to clasp one hand around his wrist; her fingers cover the pulse point there, and she concentrates on the feeling of his heartbeat.

Felicity closes her eyes, allows that steady rhythm to wash over her, and grounds herself in the moment. Her breathing slows, but she doesn't open her eyes again until she's managed to stop the trembling. When she does, her eyes automatically drift up to meet Oliver's.

"Hi," she whispers.

He gives her the ghost of a smile. "Hey."

She can feel it again, the electricity that seems to run along a current between them. His gaze is sharp, but not unkind; his hands are gentle against her cheeks, belying their power; the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips is like a lullaby.

For just a moment - one wild, breathless moment - Felicity imagines what his lips would feel like against hers; she wonders if he tastes like mint, and if his kiss would burn.

_Some say the world will end in fire._

Felicity wants to watch the world burn.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I just say that Kylie is a blast to write? And that I love you guys, because you are ridiculously fantastic. This next chapter might not be my best, because it's now one-thirty in the morning and I've just finished it, but I really wanted to post it because everyone has been so great at reviewing and I don't wanna leave you hanging. So forgive me if it's not up to par, okay? And if there are any mistakes, although I've tried to catch them all. Enjoy!

Oliver's thoughts are everywhere at once: on the man at the bar; the delicate cheekbones under his hand; but mostly, they are on Felicity's lips, painted red and temptingly – dangerously – within reach. He wants to draw her against his chest and kiss her breathless … and that is a problem, because he doesn't need one of her nonsensical ramblings to tell him that she is entertaining the same idea.

He wonders if one of them has moved, because he can almost feel the brush of her chest against his when he breathes and it is taking a monumental amount of will power to keep him from leaning down and smearing that lipstick all over them both.

When did this happen? When had this attraction they shared morph into wanton desire?

Why does he feel like it has the potential to be so much more?

_Laurel._

The name seems to coalesce in the air between them, because they move away at nearly the same instant. Felicity's hand falls away from his wrist, his away from her face, and she takes a step back; he focuses on trying to read her expression to distract himself from the tightness in his chest.

"Thank you," she murmurs, eyes flicking down momentarily. "For stopping that guy."

"No thanks necessary."

Why does his voice sound so gravelly?

"We should get back inside, before Kylie rips your club apart trying to find me. Not that she actually would, ya know, tear it apart, although not for trying … she's sort of like a rabid pixie – or fairy, maybe – but she's … not important, because I'm rambling again, so I'm gonna stop. Well, I mean, she's important, but …"

"Felicity."

Oliver isn't sure which he likes better, hearing her name or saying it.

The blonde bombshell across from him – because she really, really is – presses her lips together to keep quiet.

"Should I call you a cab?" he offers.

"Why?"

He can feel one eyebrow arching in surprise that she's even asking.

"I assumed you'd want to go home, after what happened at the bar."

She takes a deep breath and squares her small shoulders. "I'm gonna stay; I have to stay. Kylie isn't here much longer, and I'm not gonna let that sleaze ruin the night. Besides, I can't leave now."

"Why not?"

"Same reason I couldn't leave my apartment: because if I start running, I'll never stop. I can't spend the rest of my life afraid, Oliver – I won't.

Rule Number One when dealing with Felicity Smoak: never make assumptions, because she will defy them all.

"You are wonderful, Felicity Smoak."

His voice is quiet, but powerful, and he watches the way his words take hold of her: she flushes, the color rising to her cheeks and then spreading down her neck in an almost perfect mirror of the rouge on her lips.

Her eyes escape downward long enough for her to take a breath, and then they dart back up to lock on his.

"You, uh, gonna hang out?"

He thinks about the look on her face when that man had grabbed her, the desperate fear that had frozen her expression in place. Perhaps no one else would have noticed, but Oliver is old friends with terror and knows exactly what it looks like.

"Yeah; if that's okay with you?"

"Kylie would kill me if I denied her an evening with Mr. Man Cake."

Felicity is blushing again (and he is definitely not thinking about how alluring the deep red is against her flaxen curls) and then, laughing, shakes her head.

"I am never saying that again."

"Thank you."

She turns and makes her way to the door, and he is behind her in the blink of an eye. He has to clip his strides a little to make up for her shorter ones, but he stays close as they wind their way back into the crowd. Felicity navigates back to the bar, and Oliver is pleased to see that bartender either doesn't recognize her from a few moments ago, or has the foresight not to react negatively. When he comes to take their order, Felicity glances over her shoulder at him and asks what he would like to drink; he has the passing thought to decline, but pushes it away and asks for a rum and coke.

The bartender – Oliver thinks his name is Steven – is quick with their drinks, and he discovers two surprises: one is that Felicity has ordered four drinks; the other is that she can down a shot of whiskey with admirable ease.

She sets the shot glass back on the bar and hands him his glass, then takes the two that remain. She's already started for the table, back to him, when he extends his arm over her shoulder and warps a hand around one of the glasses. Felicity stops mid-step and turns her head just as he leans down to speak; his lips brush the skin in front of her ear like a whisper, and she freezes.

She smells like sunlight; her skin is satin against his lips.

Their fingers, overlapping, are warm against the cool sting of the glass.

"I'm taller," he states simply, and even in the near darkness of the club he can see her shiver.

She retracts her hand, entrusting him with the glass, and Oliver has no idea what's come over him but he can't resist bumping his chest into her back to urge her forward.

He is going to need another drink – several more, actually – if he expects to get through this night with his sanity intact.

Kylie practically leaps from her chair when they approach. She gives Felicity a look that is half glare, half smile, and then starts in.

"Where have you been? Is everything all right?"

"Minor problem with the bartender," Oliver answers quickly.

Kylie's eyes shift to him, and when she smiles he can't resist smiling in return. She is a terribly beautiful woman, and her smile is vibrant: she is over the top, yes, but it's difficult not to like her.

"I was wondering if you were gonna show up," she teases. "Knew you couldn't resist the company of two brilliant, beautiful women. Now, what happened with the bartender?"

"Nothing serious," Felicity replies. "But he did give me his number."

Kylie squeals excitedly, the sound so piercing that it carries over the music; Oliver's fingers tighten imperceptibly on his glass as he takes the seat next to Kylie and tries not to appear overly interested.

"Of course he did!" Kylie exclaims, leaning over to look at the napkin that Felicity is showing her. "Who can resist you? No one, obviously, and who can blame them? If I ever decide to experiment, Lis, you're first on my list."

Oliver thinks that he's covered the sound of his sudden choking, but Kylie isn't fooled and shoots him a look that borders on combative.

"You're not homophobic are you, Ollie? Can I call you Ollie?"

"Not at all," he answers smoothly, studiously avoiding Felicity's gaze. "And it's better than Man Cake."

"Good. It would have been irritating to have to dislike you."

Oliver can't suppress the laugh that bubbles out of him then. Kylie is outrageous, but he enjoys her honesty and zealous approach to … well, everything, apparently. He'd thought, upon their first meeting, that she seemed an unlikely friend for Felicity; their banter at the diner had been the first indication that he had thought wrong.

Now, he would have been surprised if they _weren't_ friends.

"Now," she continues, pausing to take a drink. "What are you going to do about this phone number?"

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me," Felicity deadpans.

"Whatever you want, love! But I'm all for calling him. What've you got to lose? He's obviously interested, and he gets serious points for decisiveness."

"Decisiveness?" Oliver inquires.

"Absolutely. You know what's wrong with the world today, Ollie? No one's got any balls. My motto is that life is short and shit happens, so do what makes you happy. Decide what you want, what you're passionate about, and go get it for fuck's sake!"

"You're like a modern day Audrey Hepburn, with tattoos and swearing," Felicity chimes in.

"Thank you. I like tattoos, I like swearing, and I don't give a damn if that bothers someone. And that's the point, isn't it, my sexy friends? To figure out what you want and go after it, everything else be damned."

When Kylie has ceased speaking, there are two names vying for the spotlight in Oliver's thoughts: Laurel, and Felicity.

Laurel is what got him through those five years on that island; she is the one thing that has remained constant in his life, despite his regrettable dalliance with her sister and his multitude of other mistakes. She is the goal that he has been working toward for so long that he's not sure he can remember a time before her.

… _Makes it hard, sometimes, to know if we truly love the thing for what it is, or for what we've made it out to be._

He loves Laurel – he always will – and he doesn't doubt that he could spend the rest of his life with her.

Felicity is the wild card; she is the anomaly. Unexpected, untainted by his past, she is the variable that seems to belong everywhere, but that he can't place. He is exceedingly attracted to her, as has been made obvious (recently and repeatedly), and she is one of the few people in his life that sees him for exactly who and what he is and accepts him anyway.

"You could be phenomenal together."

One panicky moment passes in which Oliver entertains the thought that Kylie is a mind reader, but when he glances at her she is looking at Felicity. The conversation has continued without him, apparently, and he is thankful for that.

"Just call him, Lis. Wait a few days, but do it; at least one date, yeah?"

"Fine," Felicity acquiesces, sighing. "Slave driver."

"Oh, you poor thing," Kylie simpers. "You're so put upon – however will you manage?"

Kylie's impersonation of a southern accent makes him smile.

"Now, call me crazy," the woman next to him continues. "But I personally like to date people I work with. Or that do the same work."

Oliver's risks a glance across the table to Felicity, only mildly surprised to find that she has done the same; their eyes lock and a long, intense moment passes before Felicity speaks.

"Why?"

Oliver waits for her eyes to move back to Kylie before tossing back the contents of his glass.

"Think about it," Kylie is explaining. "All the conversations you can have, the ways you can help each other! Theorizing about new chemical compounds over a bottle of wine; trying to recreate a double helix, naked …"

"Okay, point taken." Felicity interrupts.

"And who better to comfort you when you have a bad day? 'Honey, I blew up the lab, come share this gallon of ice cream with me and then let's have sex on the counter'."

"Does that happen often?" Oliver asks.

"Oh yes – sex on the counter fixes everything."

He's not sure if he's made a face or if it's just the hilarity of the situation, but Felicity purses her lips in a valiant attempt to keep quiet that only lasts a split second; the next, her laughter is like a veil that settles over his heart. This is the first show of joy that she's shown since the encounter at the bar, and it transforms her: one hand splays against her chest, over her heart, blue eyes bright and dancing in mirth. Kylie's answer would have made him chuckle, but it is Felicity's laughter that brings his out to answer.

"I meant blowing up the lab," he says finally.

"Oh, once or twice," Kylie answers with a dismissive wave of her hand. "A week."

"You are a walking insurance claim," Felicity teases, her smile dazzling.

"Explosions are the sign of a good chemist, thank you very much."

Kylie takes a drink and then places her glass on the table; Oliver's eyes follow its travel and he discovers that they are all in need of a new beverage.

"Anyone else want a drink?" he offers.

"Sure," Felicity answers after a moment. "Ky?"

"I never turn down booze, but how are you going to carry three glasses?"

Feeling playful, Oliver winks and then turns to wave at a man standing a few feet away from them; when he comes in range, Oliver orders another round.

"Where the hell has he been all night?" Kylie demands indignantly.

"Between tables," Oliver answers. "We only have a few waiters, so they stay pretty busy."

"Guess it's a good thing we're friends with the owner then, huh?"

Oliver smiles in reply.

His mind is still racing. He can't help replaying Kylie's words about being happy, and even about dating coworkers; he's wondering what it would be like to date someone who knew his secret, who truly understood what it is he does – and the toll it can take.

He's wondering what it would be like to date Felicity.

He should not be wondering any such thing.

The waiter reappears and sets three glasses and three shots on the table in front of them. Kylie, who is obviously pleased, grins and claps her hands.

"I like the way you think, Ollie!"

She snatches up one of the shot glasses, but waits until Oliver and Felicity has done the same so that she can hold it aloft above the table in an invitation to toast.

"To decisiveness!" she cries when their glasses are together.

Three shot glasses clink in toast and then retract to be tossed down respective throats. Kylie, who is apparently made of surprise and outrage, leans over to kiss him soundly on the cheek.

"You might wanna wipe the lipstick off before you go home," she says cheekily. "It's a good color though."

Oliver knows enough about Kylie by now to know that she meant nothing by the kiss, so there is no reason to be offended. He thinks it's kind of nice, actually, the sort of kiss that he could expect from Thea when he's done something she's feeling particularly grateful for.

"C'mon, Lis, back to the dance floor. Ollie?"

"Not a chance," he says evenly.

"Suit yourself."

Oliver tells himself that the only reason he's tracking their movements through the crowd is so that he can make sure they're safe.

He almost believes it.

                                                                        -------

Felicity's head is propped up on his shoulder, swaying gently with the motion of the cab; the flush is nearly gone from her cheeks. He'd given her his suit jacket when they'd stepped out of the club and into the brisk night air; Kylie had claimed to find it invigorating, and declined his offer to get another one from his office. Looking at her now, draped against his side and in his coat, Felicity looks tiny. He can just barely see the bruise around her eye, now mostly faded; the marks on her neck are only a little darker, although hidden by expertly applied make-up, and it makes him angry all over again. The only reason he hasn't already found her attacker and dealt with him is because he doesn't want to ask for help in finding him – but Oliver always gets his mark.

"Ollie?"

Kylie's voice is quiet, either because she doesn't want to be overheard, or in deference for her sleeping friend. He turns his head to look at her, only then realizing that he's been staring at Felicity.

"Is she okay?"

He knows that her question is not a general one.

"She's … dealing." It's the best answer he can give, and the truest.

"Those bruises … the newscaster said 'brutally attacked', but it was more than that, wasn't it?"

Oliver doesn't answer this time. He doesn't know what to say, because she is right and because he refuses to make light of what happened. He can't tell Felicity not to brush it off – he has no right to – but he doesn't have to do the same.

"Felicity is the light of my life, Oliver, and she'll be yours too, if you hang around long enough, and if I ever find the person who tried to take her from me, I will kill them."

Kylie's face is set, her expression unwavering, and Oliver does not doubt her conviction.

"He'll get what's coming to him," he assures her quietly. "One way or another."

"He better."

Kylie turns her head to gaze out the window again, and Oliver's eyes fall to Felicity again. He can easily understand how this wonderful woman could be the light of her friend's life – of anyone's life, actually – and how the idea of losing her could drive her naturally impetuous friend to murder, even hypothetically.

Felicity is between them, her legs angled toward Kylie and torso wedged up against him, so when Kylie turns to address him again their eyes meet over the top of a curly blonde head.

"I know, better than you might think, that people hurt each other, but … just try to take care of her, okay?"

"I'll do my best."

"Good."

The cab has pulled up in front of Felicity's apartment building. Oliver angles his head down slightly to wake her.

"Felicity."

Her eyes open slowly, reluctantly, and then she realizes where she is and raises her head off his shoulder to glance at Kylie and then out the window.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "Didn't mean to use you as a pillow."

"I'll walk you to your door," he tells her, ignoring the apology.

Oliver tells the cabbie to wait and then slides out the door, holding his hand out to help Felicity from the cab; she takes it and unfolds herself from the car carefully, and then glances over the roof to make sure that Kylie is coming.

He keeps her hand wrapped in his longer than is strictly necessary, only releasing it when Kylie reaches her friend's side – and he nearly doesn't even let go then.

He shoves both hands in his pockets to keep from taking her hand again.

They are not drunk, but Felicity is probably the closest to being so; Oliver distinctly remembers Kylie telling him that she was a lightweight. He hasn't noticed a big change, although her smiles do seem wider and freer, and her laughter quicker to show itself. He likes it.

They've just started down her hallway when Felicity stops. Kylie has the apartment key so Felicity tells her to unlock the door and waves her on.

"Do you mind?" she asks, motioning to Oliver's arm.

He holds the desired arm away from his side and she latches a hand around his bicep before leaning toward him and kicking her leg up to slide off her shoe. She repeats the motion on the other side, suddenly four inches shorter, and sighs when her feet hit the carpet.

Unable to resist, he leans in to tease her. "I think Kylie's taller than you now."

"Shut up," she retorts, her tone gentle and a little tired.

They start toward her door again, and Oliver doesn't say anything about the hand that is still around his bicep.

When they arrive, Kylie has left the door open and Oliver's eyes automatically do a sweep, focusing on the windows that are visible and looking for any other points of ingress.

Felicity must have known what he was doing, because she waits until he's done to step into the doorway, facing him. She smiles, that familiar quirk of her mouth, and he admits that he likes it when she does that. Lately he's taken to thinking that maybe the frequency of her smiles can even out the absence of his.

"Thank you, Oliver, for everything."

Her voice is thick from sleep and just a little lower than usual, and his mind is running away with thoughts of waking up to that sound.

"You're welcome. You two gonna be okay?"

She shucks her head toward the kitchen. "I've got the Taser."

"Call if you need anything, okay? I mean it."

"Okay. Night."

A split second decision has him leaning down to press a light kiss against her cheek.

"Goodnight. Oh, and Felicity?"

"Hmm?"

"You look beautiful."

He doesn't wait for a response, just gives her a last smile and then turns to make his way back to the cab.

He's replaying the events of the evening when his thoughts get stuck on the almost kiss outside the club. As much as he wanted it, he was right not to kiss her for several reasons. The first, of course, is that while they're relationship isn't exactly defined, he _is_ in a relationship with Laurel, and he's not the playboy anymore; the second is that he couldn't do that, to either of them. He has hurt Laurel enough for a lifetime, and he would truly rather die than cause her that kind of pain again.

The other reason is more problematic. The thought of Laurel is what stopped him, ultimately, but if he's being honest then he has to admit that it wasn't just that he didn't want to hurt Laurel: it was also because he didn't want to ruin his chances with Felicity. Kissing her in that moment would have been wrong because she had been scared, and probably not thinking the clearest; if he was – is – was going to kiss her, he would never want it to be in a moment or in a way that might make her feel taken advantage of. She might have kissed him back in the moment, but she would have been angry at him afterward, because he knows that Felicity would never disrespect anyone the way a kiss would have disrespected Laurel; or herself, for that matter.

Oliver climbs back into the taxi and gives the driver his address, then lets his head fall back against the headrest. He has a headache from the chaos of thoughts he's trying to juggle, and he silently curses himself for allowing his life to become so complicated.

Being attracted to Felicity is a terrible idea that creates numerous problems and has the potential to hurt several people, but he doesn't seem to have a choice in the matter.

It's already happened.


	6. Chapter 6

It's a little after nine o'clock on Monday night, and Felicity is prostrate on the floor – again.

Grunting in frustration, and maybe a little pain, she pushes herself off the mat and back to her feet. She turns to face Digg, her calf stinging where his foot had connected; they have been practicing for nearly an hour now, and her muscles are tired.

"Again," she says evenly, taking up the correct stance.

Digg gives her a look that clearly says they should stop, but her face is set and he must see her determination, because he doesn't say anything.

When he had suggested they start training like this, Felicity had agreed reluctantly. She doesn't believe in fighting, choosing to avoid the situations that might lead to such an eventuality, and that hasn't changed: she still doesn't believe in fighting.

She does, however, believe in protecting herself.

Digg had insisted that they wait to resume their training sessions until after she'd had time to deal with what happened, and for her bruises to heal; after what happened at the bar on Friday, she'd come to the foundry that evening determined not to wait any longer.

Felicity is not a fighter – she never will be, not the way Oliver and Digg are – but the man who assaulted had made her a victim, and she refuses to let that define her. She has vowed to never again be a victim; she is determined to be her own savior.

Digg doesn't give her any indication that he's going to move, just blurs into motion as his arm and hand whizz toward her face; she knows this move by heart, both hands shooting out to knock it away, but this isn't the part she's having trouble with. One leg comes sweeping out as soon as his arm is gone, reaching out to hook behind her leg and pull it out from beneath her; she needs to jump, and she does, but always just a fraction too late.

This time is no different.

She lands on her back this time, her breath rushing out of her in audible _whoosh._

Felicity doesn't rush back to her feet this time. She stays on her back, blinking until the ceiling high above her comes into focus once again, and waits for her breathing to become easy. A part of her is laughing, because she has essentially traded one set of bruises for another: she can feel new ones forming on her calves even as she lies there.

She is frustrated, so frustrated by so many things that it all seems to come rushing to the surface at once: the break in, her difficulty sleeping, her growing attraction to Oliver, the incident at the bar, almost kissing Oliver, her inability to get this move right, Oliver, Oliver …

"Why can't I get this right?" Her tone is even but tense, because she doesn't normally swear but right now she just wants to expunge every curse she's ever heard, and Kylie has kept her well supplied with them over the years.

"You can," Digg answers. "That's the closest you've been all night."

"That's not good enough, Digg."

She finally pulls herself to her feet, pointedly ignoring the throbbing in her legs and the headache that is just beginning to form behind her eyes. She grabs her water off a nearby surface and takes a long drink.

When she looks at Digg, he has an expression on his face that is one part concern and one part understanding.

"What's wrong, Felicity?"

She sighs and braces a hip against the nearest table. "I'm just frustrated; I feel like I should be better at this."

Digg crosses the mat to take up the space next to her, grabbing his water bottle and two towels as he does. He hands her one of the towels and they stand in silence for a bit, the sound of their breathing and the gentle whir of the computers behind them the only sounds.

"You're doing better than you think," he finally tells her. "Even if it feels like you aren't making any progress."

"I guess. It's just … hard, I guess. I mean, I don't want to be like you and Oliver – not that you aren't great, because you are, of course you are – but that's not how I want to be."

"I think I can speak for Oliver when I say that we don't want you to be like us either."

She nods. "I don't want to fight – I never have; but that guy made me a victim, Digg, and I refuse to let that stand. I won't be a victim, not for anyone or anything. So I feel … caught, I guess, between not fighting and not being a victim. I want to be good at this, but I'm not sure that I should. Does that make sense?"

"Yes. But you aren't a victim, Felicity; you took action then, and you're taking it now. You made a decision and stuck with it."

Felicity can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth then.

"Kylie said something about decisiveness," she explains. "She said that the problem with people is that no one is decisive anymore; they don't fight for what they want."

"She was right. You're not learning to fight so you can hurt people, you're learning so you can keep people from hurting you. That's a big difference."

"True." She's silent for a beat. "Thanks for listening."

"Anytime. And I mean that; I realize that I'm not the most talkative man, but I'm always here if you need me."

Felicity smiles. Talking to Digg is easy, although she's not sure why; he's just always seemed like an earnest person, even before she really knew him. He's quiet, but not unapproachable, even a little disarming.

"You never did say how the club was."

"It was good. Had a minor run in with a guy at the bar that wasn't so pleasant, but Oliver was there to scare him away. Otherwise, it was pretty fun."

"Sorry I missed it. Your friend is quite the character; I'm sure she was entertaining."

Felicity laughs. 'Quite the character' is an understatement when it comes to Kylie, and she knows that not everyone takes to her exuberant friend well; she is inordinately glad that Digg and Oliver had both seemed to like her.

"It was sort of weird, actually."

"Weird how?"

"Well, I told Oliver a little while ago that we weren't really friends, the three of us."

Digg raises an eyebrow in question.

"Well, we are," she quickly amends. "Sort of. Just not in public, ya know? It's a little more plausible that the two of you would be friends, since you actually have a reason to be in each other's company, but me? We aren't exactly in the same social circles; people would wonder how we met, and the last thing any of us needs is people asking questions."

"That's …" he trails off, searching for the right word.

"Logical?" she supplies.

"Yes, but also … cynical."

"Cynical?" she repeats, surprised. "How is that cynical?"

"Because it suggests that people can't be friends if they aren't from similar backgrounds," Digg replies easily. "It undermines the character of everyone involved."

"I guess I never thought of it that way," she accedes. "I just … find it hard to believe that we would be friends, if this Hood business hadn't brought us together."

"You never know; we could have met randomly at a coffee shop, or the diner even."

"I've never actually seen you drink coffee, Digg," she points out, smiling.

"I don't like it as much as you seem to, I'll give you that. But the point still stands."

"Okay, you and I could have met by chance – that doesn't seem so far fetched. But Oliver and I? No way."

"Why not?"

"He's not really interested in making friends, is he? He has his Hood persona, and his family, and Laurel; he's made it pretty clear that's where his priorities are. Not that there's anything wrong with that," she continues quickly, because Digg is giving her a strange look. "It's admirable, actually. Besides, I don't know that he could juggle much more without slipping up somewhere."

"You sound like you're worried about him."

"I am, and with good reason. He's always hiding, Digg, always holding some part of himself back – no one can do that without breaking eventually."

He skips a beat, and then redirects their conversation. "So, you told him we weren't friends."

"Right. And then, at the diner, it felt … normal. Easy. Everyone seemed happy, and it was the same at the club. It felt like we were normal, ya know, that we were just friends and that the rest of this didn't exist. I guess it just made me realize how much this work takes away from you – from us."

Digg gives her a sympathetic smile and then reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. It's a kind gesture, and she does feel comforted, and much better for having talked to him. She's still frustrated, because for everything that she's told him there feels like a ridiculous amount of stuff she's not telling him, but some is better none.

The truth is that what they do _is_ taxing, but she has come to believe in it. She wishes there was a different way to go about it, because she hasn't come to peace with the violence aspect of it, but the line is – has become blurred. The city needs Oliver, even if it doesn't know it, and the people that he puts away are corrupt. Not that she's condoning murder, exactly … except that she sort of is. Oliver does his best to not let it come to that, but sometimes there is no other option, and he has shown that he doesn't hesitate when it comes down to it.

Oh yes, this job takes a lot from them, and it leaves her with a bad taste in her mouth sometimes; she had only planned on staying until Walter was found, but then that goal had been achieved … and she hadn't left. She hadn't left then, and she doesn't have any plans of leaving now at all, but she's not sure when she changed her mind. Or why.

Is Oliver a murderer? And if he is, does that make her one too, by proxy? Can what they do still be called justice if it's illegal?

Yes.

No.

Does a murderer deserve to be murdered?

These are questions that she can't answer, or that she can answer, only to find that her answer changes. And what does it say about her if she believes that Oliver is a murderer, but wants him anyway? Because she does want him, and she's well past the point of being able to deny it; the problem is that she's not sure _what_ she wants from him.

She wants to know if his kisses burn, and if they do then she supposes she wants to know what's it like to be incinerated - to feel that fire, his fire, consume her from the outside in.

She wants to feel his lips ghost across her skin, leaving nothing but goose bumps and secrets in their wake.

All of this she knows, and accepts, but another question has been popping up in her thoughts as of late: does she want a relationship with him, and everything that would entail?

She's terrified to think that she might, and troubled to know that she'll never get that chance.

Why in the name of every Devil that has ever existed does her life have to be so impossibly complicated?

Oliver's heavy footfalls on the stairs pulls her from her thoughts, and she looks up just as he descends the last stair and strides towards them. He looks angry.

"We have a problem."

"Of course we do," she deadpans, unable to restrain herself. "When don't we."

Oliver levels a carefully schooled expression on her. "The break-in at your apartment wasn't random."

                                    ----------

"No."

"Felicity …"

"No, Oliver. Absolutely not."

They are staring daggers at each other, ice on steel, and Felicity is refusing to back down. Absolutely everything in her life is a disaster and Oliver has just waltzed in to deliver her another blow, and God help her, Felicity is absolutely irate. She's afraid and uncertain and resentful and she is not, repeat, _not_ going to be swayed in this one tiny thing, not matter how Oliver looms over her or invades her personal space.

"It's the only way to make sure you're safe," he argues.

"You don't know for sure, Oliver – you could be wrong."

"And what if I'm not?" he demands. "Are you really ready to gamble with your safety? Because that's what you're doing."

"This is ridiculous!" she explodes, and her anger makes her lean into him, so that he can maybe feel it as well as hear it. "No one wants to kidnap me! Why would they? And before you say because I've been helping you, ask yourself how anyone would know that!"

"If I'm wrong and no one is after you, then what will it hurt? Humor me."

What will it hurt? More than she can admit. He may not know it, but he's not just asking her to come stay at the mansion; he's asking her to spend several days in close company with him, in his home, where she will be surrounded by … well, him. His family, his memories, all those parts of himself and his life that he has kept hidden from her – intentionally or not – and now he wants her to throw her into that mix. She doesn't want to gamble with her safety, but she can't admit to him why she's so against spending time in his home without revealing a great deal more than she wants to.

There's also not much of an option: she can't stay with Digg because he practically lives with Carly and Artie, and if she stays in her apartment then she may as well paint a huge sign over her door inviting anyone and everyone over.

"Digg," she pleads, although she's not sure what she's asking for.

"He's right, Felicity. If he's wrong then it won't matter; if he's right, then there's nowhere safer for you than the mansion. Not until we figure this out."

"If you're right, and we catch whoever is responsible, I am going to punch them in the face."

She thinks she might see a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

"Fair enough. I'm going to change, and then we can swing by your place and you can get what you need.

"Great," she replies, but her tone says that it's anything but.

                                    ----------

Felicity is trying very hard not to be impressed, but it would be easier if the mansion were a little less beautiful.

She's seen the exterior in pictures, and even the inside of a room or two, but they didn't do it justice; it also helps that Felicity is a lover of architecture and old buildings.

She can't help herself. "This place is beautiful."

Felicity is a few steps behind Oliver; he's showing her to the room that she'll be using for the duration of her stay, but she's not paying attention. She's taking in the sweep of the ceiling as it climbs away from her, the expansive windows set into stone walls, and the tables placed every few feet that are made of beautiful cherry wood.

She's stopped in the middle of the hallway, too busy taking it all in to care if she loses him, not noticing that he's stopped as well.

"My mom would have loved this place."

She's spoken without thinking, and it draws her back to the present. Her eyes stop their wandering to return to her host, only to find that Oliver is watching her with a look that makes her stomach flip.

She hates it when does that.

"Thea used to call it 'the castle' when she was little."

Felicity smiles and catches up to him, her feet rustling softly on the deep red carpet. Oliver moves to open the door that he's stopped in front of, ushering her in with a nod.

"You're joking."

It's the only thing that she can think of to say, because this room is damn near ridiculous. The fading sunlight is cascading through the window in ribbons of red and yellow, the long fingers of color stretching across the bed and carpet; she's guessing that this single room is almost as big as her entire apartment, and the high ceiling makes it feel even larger. The furniture is stately and dark, but the bedspread and draperies are surprisingly colorful.

"Thea's room is two doors down," he tells her. "I'm across the hall. Think you remember where the bathroom is?"

"Yeah. Does this place have some sort of intercom system or something?"

"Why?"

"In case I get lost."

She's only half serious, and he seems to sense that she's joking so he gives her a lopsided smile.

"I'll let you get settled. Holler if you need anything."

"How do I know you'll hear me?"

"Good hearing."

He's almost disappeared out the door when she calls him back.

"Oliver?"

He pokes his head around the corner, and for just a second she feels foolish and almost tells him never mind.

"Do you really think that guy was after something? That someone's after me?"

She hates that she sounds so … frightened, even though that's exactly what she is.

"I think that it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Don't patronize me, Oliver," she retorts, but her tone is devoid of anger.

Felicity watches his face fall and then he's stepping back into the room, coming close enough that whatever he's about to say won't be overhead from the hallway.

"I think it's plausible that someone could have found out that you're connected to the Hood, and that they'd want information badly enough to kidnap you to get it."

"But if that's true then why didn't he take me when he had the chance?"

"You said you surprised him; maybe that guy was just a lackey, and he panicked. Maybe he was told to retrieve something specific, and when he didn't find it they decided to go after you instead. It's hard to say."

"Yeah." She doesn't know what else to say, and she suddenly feels so tired that she drops herself onto the bed.

"We'll figure it out, Felicity," he reassures her. "But until we do, you're safe here. Okay?"

"Okay."

She lets him go this time, and he pulls the door partway closed behind him. She doesn't ask him to close it all the way, or question why he's left it open; she just waits until the sound of his footsteps has faded away, and then she tosses herself back onto the bed and hopes with everything she has that she'll be able to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Oliver is just about to turn the corner into his room the next evening when the sound of feminine laughter drifts toward him. He pauses mid-stride, recognizing his sister's laugh but confused because it hasn't come from her room.

The sound comes again, and when it does he realizes that the second laugh belongs to Felicity. Sure enough, the door across from his is half open. Intrigued, he changes directions and heads for her room instead of his.

Thea is seated on the edge of the bed, grinning widely at Felicity, who is standing a foot or so in front of her and wearing a white dress; she has on two different colored shoes, and he's guessing that Thea is offering her fashion advice. The different shoes – one white, one red – remind him of the colorful socks she seems to be so fond of.

"Definitely go with the red," Thea tells her. "And slap on some red lipstick."

Neither of them has noticed his approach.

"Hot date?" he queries.

Two sets of eyes turn to where he's standing in the doorway.

"Yes, actually," Felicity answers, but there's something in the way she says it that sounds almost shy.

"The bartender?"

"Steven," she corrects.

"He's gonna have his hands full," Thea pipes up. "Trying to keep everyone else away from you."

Felicity blushes and sets about taking off the unwanted shoe. The deep red of her cheeks seems brighter against the crisp white of her dress, and Oliver has to agree (silently) with his sister: she is stunning. He has no right to be, but he is powerfully jealous of this Steven the bartender, especially when he thinks that Steven will be the one that gets to kiss her.

Oliver is toeing a line that leads into very dangerous territory, because the idea of someone else's lips on hers leaves him feeling as though he's been punched, and he has half a mind to cross the room at that very moment and claim her lips with his own.

Which he absolutely _can't_ do.

"How exactly did this come about?" he questions, glancing from his sister to Felicity.

"Well …" Felicity begins.

Thea cuts her off. "I was kind of a bitch to her." She looks contrite when she glances at Felicity, but the contrition turns to irritation when she looks at him.

"I would've reacted the same, if I'd woken up to find a stranger in my house." Felicity is quick to jump to her defense, and Oliver wants to groan.

Of course, _of course_ Thea and Felicity would get along! Why? Because he'd thought that, of all people, Thea would be the one that she didn't win over; so, naturally, she'd turned around and done exactly that – almost instantly, apparently. He almost thinks that Felicity is proving him wrong out of spite, except that she doesn't know she's doing it.

Awkward or not, Felicity is certainly charming, and even more so because she seems to be completely oblivious to the fact.

"So you just saw her and started yelling at her, Thea?"

"Sort of? But it's your fault for not telling me that she was going to be staying here while her apartment was worked on!"

Oliver shoots a glance at Felicity, who looks as if she's trying very hard not to smile.

Well, she's definitely better with cover stories, because he truly hadn't even thought of one.

"Why is it my fault?" he challenges. "You should know by now not to just start yelling at people for the hell of it."

"You're older, so it's your fault."

He recognizes her reasoning from when they were younger, and shoots a glare at her for it. He'd lost count of how many times he and Thea had gotten into fights, only to be broken up by their mother who would always say the same thing: 'you're older, Oliver, you should know better.' Which had, over the years, developed into Thea's favorite taunt to throw at him: 'you're older, so it's your fault.'

"I managed to introduce myself when she paused for air," Felicity tells him, and she's losing the battle with her smile because one corner of her mouth has turned up.

"And I recognized her name from the news last week, and you mentioned her the night you came home with blood on your shirt."

"And now here you are, giggling over shoes." He skips right over the mention of the day that Felicity was attacked.

"We were not _giggling_ ," Felicity says indignantly, stressing the word.

"Sounded like it from out here."

"What were you doing, Ollie, eavesdropping?"

"You weren't exactly being quiet, Thea."

He doesn't mention that although he's heard Thea's laugh often enough, it's been awhile since he's heard her giggle like that.

He also makes no mention of how he feels about realizing that it's Felicity who's made her do it.

"There's a package waiting for you downstairs," he says suddenly, looking at Thea. "It's from Walter."

Thea grins and bounds off the bed. "Awesome!"

She's almost to the door when she stops to glance back at Felicity, who's been mostly quiet. "Don't forget the lipstick."

"I won't."

Thea breezes out of the room like a tornado, and Oliver leans his head back to watch her progress down the hall. His sister is hard to keep up with sometimes, young and hard headed, but she can also be sweet when she wants to be. He hates what the last several years have done to her, and he's more grateful than he lets on that Walter has made the effort to keep in contact with her. He may have divorced Moira – and Oliver doesn't blame him, really – but he continues to make it clear that he hasn't abandoned Thea, and she needs that.

He turns back to see that Felicity is watching him. "She's sweet."

He raises an eyebrow and gives her a quiet chuckle. "She's a terror."

"That too," she agrees, smiling.

They lapse into silence, and he allows himself a long moment to just look at her before speaking again. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Is he imagining the way the breath seems to hitch in her throat?

"What?"

There is a multitude of ways that he could answer her. "Going on a date when someone might be targeting you?"

He wants to finish that sentence with 'someone who isn't me'.

"Well, to be fair, I agreed to this before we figured that out. Which I'm still not sure I believe, by the way, but … do you really think they – whoever 'they' are – would come after me in public?"

"I don't know." He doesn't want to be given the opportunity to find out.

"Should I cancel?"

He has to tell himself that he's just imagining the almost hopeful note in her voice, because he's not sure how to take it if it's really there.

She must realize how it's sounded too, because she starts rambling. "It's just that I haven't been on a date in, well … longer than I want to admit, actually, and I'm sort of out of practice, and nervous, and I ramble when I get nervous and what if he asks me about what I do and I start to … well, ramble?"

He says nothing, just watches the progression as she goes from speaking to speaking with her hands, whipping them through the air with a nervous sort of energy. When she finally stops, her shoulders sag ever so slightly and she seems to deflate.

"I don't know how to do this, Oliver." Her voice is softer now, but more earnest, maybe even plaintive. "Relationships are hard enough as it is. Do I really want to start one when I know that there's always going to be a part of my life that I can't share?"

Several things occur to Oliver at once: the first is that, once again, Felicity has a valid point that he can't refute, or even offer an argument for. Relationships are difficult, and nearly impossible when you throw a secret such as theirs into the mix; Oliver knows that better than he'd like to. The second thing that occurs is an acute onset of guilt, because he is the one who brought her into this; he's the reason, however arbitrarily, that she has to hide a part of her life, and he really is sorry for that.

The final thing that occurs to him is simple on the surface, and infinitely more complex underneath: she's just used the word _always_. A normal word, an unassuming word, and yet …

Does that mean that she plans on helping him until the job is done? Because he had been surprised when she stuck around after they'd found Walter, and has purposely avoided asking her about her plans since.

Felicity steps out of her high heels and perches carefully on the end of the bed, smooth legs crossing over one another.

He thinks it's cute that her feet don't touch the floor.

Oliver knows that he should leave, because prolonged exposure to Felicity is proving to be dangerous, but he doesn't; instead, he heads across the room and takes up a seat next to her, so close that their shoulders are almost touching.

"No great words of wisdom for me?" she teases softly.

"You asked me not to patronize you," he tells her honestly. "So I'm not."

She nods, glancing down at her hands that are clasped in her lap. Her nails are painted green today, a deep emerald that's not far off the color of his disguise as the Hood, and it makes him want to laugh.

"It's funny, really, that I'm the one who said we aren't friends."

"Why is that funny?"

He turns his head toward her just enough to study her profile. He wishes that he knew why he finds it so easy to be around her, why he feels so comfortable just sitting silently beside her.

"Because I seem to have developed the bad habit of telling you more than I should."

She lifts her head, her eyes leaving her hands to collide with his. She's left her hair down and curly, just the way he likes it, and he can smell her shampoo: something citrus.

"I don't know why," she continues. "It just feels like you're the only person I don't have to hide from. Well, you and Digg. Is that crazy?"

She's got to stop looking at him like this, with her big doe eyes and long lashes and openness, because it does strange things to him and makes it hard to concentrate on anything that isn't Felicity.

"No, Felicity, that's not crazy." He doesn't need to say her name, but he likes the way it rolls off his tongue, and he likes the way she reacts to hearing it.

He wants to tell her to cancel her date for reasons that aren't entirely right, and this is what drives him to reach for middle ground.

"Don't cancel your date; just see if you can reschedule."

The mention of her impending night out redraws the line that they are dancing around, and he can feel the way she draws away from him even though she hasn't moved. This is good, the distance is good, but he doesn't like it, and he doesn't like how much he doesn't like it.

Oliver is confused, frustrated even, although he won't let it show, and Felicity is the reason. She makes him want things that he shouldn't, because he finally has Laurel and he wants Laurel, but he also wants Felicity, in every way that he can want someone.

When does want turn into need?

He wants to split himself in half, because he is living two different lives and he wants two different women and everything would be so much easier if he could just be two different people. The constant pull of opposites is wearing on him, and it frightens him because he doesn't know what will happen if he snaps; it frightens him to think that Laurel might not be his be all, end all anymore, and to think that he might be entirely too close to _falling in love_ with Felicity.

_Everyone has a limit, and I think you've just about found yours._

And what happens when he does?

"Ollie!" Thea yells suddenly. "Laurel's here!"

Sometimes Oliver thinks life was easier on the island.

                                                -----------

Oliver doesn't know why they're fighting, not really, but they are mid-argument when Thea springs down the stairs with Felicity in tow.

Laurel's voice falls away when she catches sight of them, and Oliver has to try very hard not to let his exasperation-turned-irritation manifest itself outwardly.

"Hey," Thea says brightly, smiling at them. "Felicity and I are gonna watch a movie since her date canceled. We'll be in the living room if you wanna join us."

_Oh, sweet Jesus …_

Felicity offers Laurel a nervous smile, who is still to surprised to react, and then disappears after his sister.

"Isn't she the girl I met at the club?" Laurel asks, her tone carefully even. "The one who was setting up your router?"

"Yes."

"Why is she here, and in her pajamas?"

Oliver considers his girlfriend to be a fairly rational person – normally – but it's quickly becoming clear that she is not going to make this easy, which is mildly irritating because she's usually so understanding. Not that he can strictly blame her for reacting negatively, considering their history, and that's irritating too, because he's not sure they'll ever really get past that.

"Whatever you're thinking, Laurel, I promise it's not like that."

"Really? Because I'm thinking that it feels like you've been avoiding me for the last week, and then I show up here to find that there's a woman – a beautiful woman, by the way, and don't think I didn't notice – that I've barely met, running around in her pajamas!"

He thinks it's probably a good thing that Felicity isn't still dressed for her date.

"She's a friend, Laurel, the one who had her apartment broken into."

His words seem to get her attention, because she takes a deep breath and he can see the gears starting to turn as she makes the connection. "The one who was attacked?"

"Yes. I offered to let her stay at the mansion for a bit, because she's having a new alarm system installed and she's having a hard time being there alone."

Okay, so Felicity hasn't exactly admitted to the last part, but she doesn't need to for Oliver to know that it's true.

"And frankly, Laurel, I'm trying really hard not to be angry with you for immediately jumping to conclusions."

"Well you don't have the best track record, Ollie."

Her words cut at him, dig at the pieces of his past that he hates and has done his best to make up for, and this is the rock that heralds the tipping of the scale.

She has just done more damage than either of them fully realizes, because now he is as angry as she is.

"That's in the past, Laurel, so why won't you leave it there? I think I've done a pretty good job of showing you that I'm not like that anymore, but you seem determined to believe the worst of me, which is funny because you didn't seem to have the same problem with Tommy, and we were exactly alike!"

Now he has cut her, and he can see it in the tears that rise in her eyes, making them shine in the artificial lighting of the foyer. Her pain brings him down, because he is angry and hurt but he doesn't want to hurt her in return, and because Tommy is still a painful subject for him too.

He wraps a hand around Laurel's and pulls her into his chest; she hesitates for a second and then lets herself relax against him.

Why do they seem to keep coming back to this? In some ways he feels as if this has been the never- ending argument, the one that hides just beneath the surface and waits for moments like this to reappear. Every time he thinks they've moved past it, it comes back to bite him in the ass, and he's getting tired.

"I'm sorry," he tells her quietly, dropping a kiss against her hair.

She smells like flowers.

"So am I. I guess I just didn't expect everything to get so …"

"Complicated?" he offers.

"Yes, and difficult. I just want things to be easy again, ya know?"

"Nothing is ever easy, Laurel."

"Okay, eas _ier_ , then."

He opens his mouth to reply, but hears Felicity's voice in his head: _don't patronize me, Oliver._

"Are you happy, Ollie?"

His heart misses a beat. "Yes."

"And no, I think," she murmurs against his chest. "You seem … sad – even when you're smiling."

Oliver doesn't know what to say, because she is right, and more so than she even realizes. He _is_ sad, and he's not sure it'll ever go away completely because he's seen and done so much that he doesn't see how it could; there's the very real possibility that he will never truly shake the air of melancholy that has taken root in his heart.

"C'mon," he tells her then, stepping back and taking her hand. "Let's go upstairs."

He doesn't want to think about anything – he wants to take her upstairs and forget about everything that has happened, everything that could happen, everything that he does and does not want; he wants one night where he can forget about who and what he is, and the impossible tangle of strings that his life has become.

"Actually," Laurel says, stopping him. "Can we go watch that movie? I could use the distraction, and I was sort of rude earlier."

"Sure."

He's proud of how neutral his tone is, because he now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he doesn't want Felicity and Laurel together. He feels like his life is getting remarkably close to spinning wildly out of hand, like he's about to throw a tornado at a volcano just to see what will withstand the destruction. He wants to tell her no, but he can't, so instead he just leads her into the living room.


	8. Chapter 8

"How can you not like it?" Thea queries, staring openly at her. "It's a classic romance."

"It's horrifying," she replies easily.

"How can it be horrifying? It's a love story!"

"What's a love story?"

Felicity is turned away from the door, facing the television and Thea where she's standing at the DVD rack, but she doesn't need to turn around to know that Laurel and Oliver have apparently decided to join them. Laurel is the one asking the question, and it makes her feel like she doesn't want to answer it.

An uncharitable sentiment, she knows, but she doesn't care. They are not competing, but Felicity knows that she is being sized up, taken stock of, and it doesn't make her feel inclined to share more than is necessary. It's a self- preservation thing, really, and logical, because she can't afford to be friends with Laurel if the other woman should decide that she likes her.

"Romeo and Juliet," Thea answers. "Which Felicity apparently hates." Thea's tone is not condescending or hurtful, but truly intrigued.

Oliver steps into her line of sight first, and she avoids making eye contact but makes herself take a moment to stare at the feminine hand that is wrapped in his. She doesn't want to be around Oliver and Laurel and their couple-ness, but she knows that she needs to be, for exactly that reason. Seeing them together will hurt, but she needs to be reminded that she and Oliver will never be a thing, no matter how close they seem to be becoming.

Oliver and Laurel take a seat on the opposite couch, and she is thankful for that small mercy. Being in the same room with them is one thing – being next to them on a couch is another.

"How can you hate Romeo and Juliet?" Laurel asks, fixing dark eyes on her.

She shrugs and tries not to, but her eyes shift to Oliver anyway: he smiles, just the tiniest pull of his mouth and then it's gone, and she wonders if he remembers her threat to stab him with his own arrow.

"I just think it's a terrible story."

She doesn't elaborate, and for just a second she thinks that the conversation is over, that she will not be asked to reveal more, but that's not to be the case. Laurel is giving her a veiled sort of stare, not outright threatening or disapproving, but Felicity gets the feeling that Laurel might not be her biggest fan – and she doesn't care, really.

Thea is the one to pick up the thread of conversation. "Terrible because?"

"Don't you want to watch a movie?" Felicity evades, trying to change the subject.

"Yes, and we will – right after you explain."

Thea is interested, and the way her eyes are alight makes Felicity wonder if she isn't a fan of Shakespeare; she seems very curious as to why Felicity is averse to Romeo and Juliet and very excited to talk about it. She abandons her post near the DVD's to take up the seat next to Felicity, sitting sideways on the couch so she can look directly at Felicity and still see her brother and Laurel.

Felicity sighs softly and pulls her legs up onto the couch. "Well, for starters, it's a three day romance between a thirteen year old and a seventeen year old that results in several deaths, which is just … disturbing."

"To us," Laurel interjects. "But things were different in Shakespeare's time – their youth would have been more acceptable then. And that's the argument everyone makes against it."

"True," Felicity concedes. "But the premise of the story is still tragic at best, and macabre at worst. The characters, the entire story would have us believe that love is the be all, end all of a life; that it is worth committing suicide over."

"And you don't think so?" Thea prods, leaning forward and propping her elbow on the back of the couch so she can prop her hand against her cheek.

"Not at all. I find it a little insulting, actually."

"Insulting," Laurel repeats, and there's an edge to her tone that Felicity doesn't like. "How is it insulting, exactly?"

Felicity had been looking at Thea, because Oliver's sister is the one who seems the most interested in the conversation - and also the one who started it - but Laurel's question has drawn her gaze to the woman sitting next to Oliver.

Her answer is quick, her tone maybe a little more biting than she intends for it to be, because she doesn't like the way Laurel is looking at her or the wordless challenge she sees in her eyes when she looks at her.

"Because it undermines everything else. Love is important, of course, but what about hope? Ideals? Beliefs? Love would be nothing but a sad shadow without them, because it owes its existence to them. You don't start out loving someone, you start with hope: the hope that there is someone out there who knows how to love you without being told, and that you will recognize them when you meet them; so on and so forth. You can't reduce a heart – a person – down to one single emotion; that's not how we work."

Felicity is hearing another voice in her head, a much beloved voice, and it is replaying old discussions of this subject and many others that took place years ago; it's drawing her back to a place where her mother is still alive, and they are sitting together on the couch and talking about these exact things while her mother brushes her hair.

"And love isn't worth dying over?" Laurel questions, pulling Felicity from her memories.

"Dying over? No. Dying for? Maybe."

"But you don't think that what Romeo does is romantic, at least a little?" Thea pipes up then. "I mean, the thought of living a life without the woman he loved was so terrible that he would rather die than be without her."

"That's not romantic, that's cowardice. We all live without the people we love at some point, for some reason: they die, or they don't love you in return, or they do and you can't be together for whatever reason. Death is easy; learning to live your life without them, that's the hard part."

She knows that Oliver's eyes are on her, because the weight of his gaze is familiar and she feels like the heat of it is burning holes through her. She wants to look at him, to catch his eye and see what secrets lurk there, but she's afraid of getting caught in that dizzying vortex of … whatever it is that seems to be building between them, and she can't risk that with Thea and Laurel present.

"Have you ever been in love, Felicity?" Laurel's voice is edgy, and it's the first indication she has that maybe her words have made the other woman think of Tommy.

"No."

"I can tell."

"Laurel," Oliver says then, his tone soothing and warning simultaneously.

Felicity bristles at the words that are clearly meant to be an insult and tucks her tongue into the side of her jaw, clamping down on it just firmly enough to keep her from spitting out a retort. Her words have obviously struck a sour note with the other woman, and although she can't know exactly why, she does know that Tommy died trying to save this woman; she tells herself that's why Laurel seems so hostile now, because she thinks Felicity has insulted his memory, and tells herself that exchanging barbs will not do any of them any good.

"Don't 'Laurel' me, Ollie, she gets to express her opinion and so do I; mine just happens to be that she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about!"

Felicity isn't really sure what's happened, but when Laurel's attention turns back to her she looks like she's about ready to break: there are tears standing in her eyes and she looks ready to fight, but Felicity doesn't know what she's done or what there is to fight over.

"Why don't we have this discussion later, Felicity, when you've had a chance to stand in my shoes: your sister dies after running away with your boyfriend, and the man you love dies saving you. Then we'll see what you have to say about love."

"Yes, because you must be the only woman in all of creation to have suffered losses," Felicity snaps, unable to keep her tongue any longer. She slides to her feet, no longer in the mood for socializing, but can't resist speaking again. "I am sorry about what you've been through, Laurel, but you need to find a way to accept it."

She turns and heads for the door, and she can hear Oliver and Thea both speaking although she can't hear their words. She clears the room and makes it to the foyer before she realizes that there are footsteps behind her.

"You never accept something like that, Felicity."

Laurel has followed her, and for some reason it makes her irrationally angry. She spins back to face the other woman, doing her best to keep a lid on her anger, and barely registers that Oliver is right behind Laurel, with Thea hot on his heels.

"No, Laurel, you don't. But you know what you do accept? That Tommy's death wasn't your fault, because he was a grown man who made his choice."

That doesn't seem to be the answer any of them were expecting, because it hits Laurel like an invisible slap to the face. She not only stops her pursuit, but also draws back and away from her.

Felicity feels as if something is breaking apart inside her; the walls that have kept her standing through the last week and everything that's happened are shuddering beneath their own weight, crumbling, and it's all bubbling to the surface. She is filled with the overwhelming need to lash out, to overturn everything she can see because the force of whatever is beating in her breast feels so destructive that she thinks it might rip her apart.

She flees in the face of Laurel's silence, rocketing up the stairs and straight into the guest room she's using; she locks herself in and then stands in the middle of the room for a long moment, battling to keep hold of herself.

The tears are cool against her flushed cheeks, and the battle is lost.

                                                -----------

Felicity likes big windows; she likes to stare out them and wonder what sort of lives people are living out there, and when she sees someone she likes to create stories for them. She'll give them lives, and full back stories, and then wonder, if she ever got the chance to ask them, if any of it would be close to the truth.

She really loves big windows at night, though, because she likes to sit under them and stare up at the stars and see how many constellations she can remember; and when the day has been a little too long, the light a little too harsh, she likes to talk to her mother and pretend that she can hear her.

It's nearly two o'clock in the morning and it's almost a full moon; the long silver fingers of light are stretching across the kitchen floor and they almost reach her where she's sitting on the edge of the counter. She thinks she could probably extend her leg and her foot would be aglow with moonlight.

Her mom used to hate it when she sat on the countertops, and she knows that it's probably impolite of her to be sitting on the countertops of the Queen mansion, but it is late and she doesn't think she'll be caught. This is also the reasoning behind her theft, which she really does feel bad about: a pint of ice cream. Although, the argument could be made that Oliver actually owes her ice cream, since he'd made her toss hers that night in the foundry; she never has found that spoon.

"Great," she says softly. "Now I'm rationalizing theft."

The mansion is quieter than she expected, really, but it is a big house so she doubts that she would hear anything even if someone else were awake - which also means no one can hear her.

"I bet tag was a nightmare to play in this house."

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but she likes the way it seems to fall through the shadows and disappear. She didn't bother to turn on the lights, because there is something soothing about the darkness and the pale moonlight. This place is infinitely larger than her apartment, but she feels strangely safe here; maybe because no one would think to look for her here, and maybe because she knows there are several security guards on the grounds.

Felicity sighs and stabs her spoon into the ice cream, then pops it into her mouth upside down. She lets the ice cream melt against her tongue for a minute, savoring the flavor, before withdrawing the spoon and swallowing.

"What the hell am I doing?" she asks then, as if someone were there to answer. As if there were an answer. "How has this become my life?"

She sets the tub of ice cream down next to her on the counter and then leans back on one arm, holding the other one up in front of her face. She uses the spoon to trace formless patterns in the air, then draw imaginary lines between a cluster of stars before finally holding it in front of the moon and then closing one eye, so that it disappears.

"Well, everything isn't a total bust. You'd be scandalized to know, mom, that I have become a polygamist and am now in a relationship with two very fine men: Mr. Ben, and Mr. Jerry. Both are tall, dark and handsome, of course, and crazy about me – even when I ramble. I guess you could say I make them melt."

She chuckles quietly, breathlessly, and then shakes her head. "And now I'm the crazy lady sitting in the moonlight and telling puns to the stars. I lied, my life is a total bust."

"I don't know, I thought it was kinda cute."

Felicity groans and drops her head back, closing her eyes in embarrassment.

"How long have you been standing there, Oliver?"

"Long enough to know that you've taken up a career in petty theft."

When she opens her eyes again and raises her head he's standing next to her, one hand braced on the counter not four inches from her right hip.

"I'm sorry," she says, motioning at the ice cream. "I'll replace it."

"No, you won't," he answers. "You'll share."

He steps around her and opens the silver ware drawer to retrieve a spoon and then comes back, and she is surprised when he hefts himself up onto the counter beside her.

"Hand it over."

She passes him the ice cream, and can't help smiling a little as she does; the corner of his mouth turns up in answer, and then he's plunging his spoon into the tub and pulling out twice the amount she usually takes.

"You're gonna give yourself a brain freeze."

"You had a head start."

Felicity reaches over and takes a smaller scoop for herself, and then turns her gaze out the window again. She starts swinging her feet back and forth slowly, careful not to let her heels bang against the counter.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"So am I. For what it's worth, I don't think Laurel was actually mad at you; we were fighting when you came downstairs."

"I know. That she wasn't mad at me, I mean, not about the fighting. I think we were both just a little tense, and things got out of hand. No harm, no foul. Sorry about the fighting."

"Not your fault."

"I know, but …"

She trails off, because she isn't exactly sure how to put her thoughts into words, and it's probably better that way because she doesn't think it's her place to say them anyway.

"But what?" Oliver prods.

"Nothing."

He seems to know that she has more to say, but he doesn't press her; instead he holds out the ice cream so she can take some.

"So," he says finally. "A polygamist, huh?"

He's teasing her, and she tries to purse her lips against the smile that tries to form but only succeeds in keeping it to a smirk.

"What can I say," she shrugs. "I'm irresistible."

A beat passes. Then, "Why are you down here, Felicity?"

"Couldn't sleep, so I wandered for awhile – your house is beautiful. Ended up down here, where I proceeded to high jack your ice cream and set up camp on your counter. It took me like ten minutes to find the spoons, by the way. You?"

He doesn't answer. He puts the ice cream down on the counter, sticking his spoon into it like a stake, and then leans back on his arms in a mimic of her earlier position. His eyes are on her though, and he tips his head just a little in her direction; she can feel him regarding her, and she draws one leg up onto the counter and turns sideways to look at him.

"What?"

"Your mom – what was she like?"

Felicity exhales quietly. "She was … dynamic. Impatient sometimes, but compassionate, and she loved reading. A little fanciful."

"What did she do?"

"She was a teacher, actually; seventh grade English."

"What did she think of Shakespeare?"

Felicity chuckles and looks away for a minute, and when her eyes turn back to Oliver his gaze is soft on her face.

"She loved him, actually. We use to have long discussions about him, and his plays. She encouraged me to form my own opinions, but she was quick to make me defend them. 'Know what you're standing for,' she'd say."

"She sounds wonderful, Felicity."

"She was."

The silence stretches around them; Oliver's gaze is still on her face and his expression is serious, the way it normally is, but there's something in his eyes that feels thoughtful – and maybe a little hesitant.

"Laurel and I aren't together anymore."

Her heart trips over itself, and his admonition is so sudden that she can't immediately think of what to say. She also can't help wondering why he's felt the need to share the information with her.

"I'm sorry," she says after a breathless moment.

"Don't be. We both have some things we need to … figure out."

She nods wordlessly, because she can't think of anything else to say. He seems a little sad, yes, but there is something else in him that looks … well, she isn't sure, really. She can read his moods better than he realizes, so she knows that it's there, she just isn't sure what exactly 'it' is.

She can't help but wonder what it is that he needs to figure out.

"I like it," he says suddenly, and his voice is quieter than before.

"Like what?"

"You're rambling; it's honest. People rarely ever say what they mean; they're hardly ever who they say they are. Not you."

"It's embarrassing," she hems, because the way he's looking at her is giving her butterflies.

"And sweet."

Sweet? Did Oliver just call her sweet? She's so surprised by his words that she doesn't realize that he's sat up and is now dangerously close to her; her mind is stuck on the multiple meanings of the word sweet, and her heart is busy repositioning itself in her throat.

Oliver Queen simply does not call her sweet.

"Sometimes you feel like the only thing that's real, Felicity."

He is close, closer than he should be, and her eyes feel as if they are locked with his; her lips part, because she is going to make some sort of reply – regardless of the fact that she's not sure the speech center of her brain is even working anymore – but then his fingers are tucking themselves under her chin, tipping it up with the barest hint of pressure, and all the world is falling away.


	9. Chapter 9

He moves slowly, carefully, watching for any indication that she might want him to stop and giving her plenty of time to speak out, but she doesn't; she watches his approach with glittering eyes, and then closes them at the last second.

Felicity's lips are soft and slightly cool, and he feels electrified and wants nothing more than to pull her against him and kiss her until she's dizzy, but he makes himself pull back instead. He strokes her chin with his thumb, just the smallest caress, and then says her name.

"Felicity."

When her eyes open they are instantly trained on his, and there is a waiting darkness in them that he's not sure he's ever seen before.

Oliver has been so patient, and the way that she's watching him is so alluring that he can't resist closing the tiny gap between them and pressing another kiss against her lips.

Whatever thoughts he'd had about pulling away are erased, then, because Felicity leans forward and into him, her lips parting in a wordless invitation, and he is lost. He releases her chin only to sweep his fingers along the line of her jaw and into her hair, coming to rest at the nape of her neck and holding her against him.

She tastes like ice cream and he's afraid he might crush her in his desire to have her closer, but then her little hands are fluttering against his sides and pressing into his back, pulling him to her, and he feels as if he's been set on fire. He braces one long arm next to and behind her and then leans forward onto it, so that he is above her, and nothing exists except this moment and the heat of Felicity's mouth.

He's not sure who pulls away first, but he can just make out the pink tinge on her cheeks in the pale moonlight. They are both breathless.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice heavy.

Felicity shivers and he smiles at her, a real, full smile that he doesn't think he could hide even if he tried.

"Hi," she answers slowly. "I've never seen you smile like that before."

"I smile," he replies.

"Not like that. At least, not for me."

She pulls herself up, forcing him back and away from her; he drops the hand that had cradled her head, separating them and giving her the room she seems suddenly to crave. He can see the change as it falls over her, the way her eyes seem to clear and the lines of her body harden, but his brain is slow to realize what's happening.

Just a moment ago she was living fire beneath him, zealous and willing, and now … now she is ice.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly, and then she's sliding off the counter.

"What?" he asks, because the sudden change is dizzying.

"That … I don't … that can't happen again, Oliver."

He thinks maybe his mouth has fallen open; he can't look away, and her eyes are fierce with resolve as she looks at where he's still sitting motionless on the counter.

"Felicity …"

"I'm going home in the morning."

That knot in his stomach has not only returned, but also doubled in size; she's already making her escape from the kitchen, from him, and he slides off the counter and makes a play for her wrist before she can disappear. He's careful not to exert much force, only enough to get her attention and stop her retreat; he lets go as soon as she faces him, because he remembers all too well the way that asshole at the bar had frightened her. It is very important to him that he never makes Felicity feel frightened.

"I'm lost," he tells her, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"I'm not willing to be a conquest, Oliver."

Her words are like a punch to the stomach, because he has never seen Felicity as a conquest, and because the way she's looking at him tells him that she's clearly never imagined that she would be anything else.

"You're not a conquest, Felicity."

"No? You just broke up with Laurel hours ago and now here you are, kissing me into oblivion on your kitchen counter. What else would I be?"

"If I remember correctly, you were perfectly willing."

Okay, that was the wrong thing to say and he knows it immediately, because even in the darkness he can see the way her eyes have narrowed and are now staring daggers at him.

"I didn't mean that," he says quickly, "The way it sounded. And I don't think you're a conquest."

"Fine," she agrees grudgingly. "I'm not. But I'm not willing to play second fiddle, either; I want more than casual sex, Oliver."

He feels blown out of the water by her words; while he won't deny that he has thought about what it would be like to have Felicity in his bed, that was not even remotely his intention. Yet again, she seems to have thought things through much farther than he has.

"I'm not trying to get you into bed, Felicity."

"I don't think you know what you're trying to do," she counters. "And that's the problem. You don't know what you want, and I am no one's consolation prize."

She has reduced him to frustration again, in that way that is uniquely hers, and her words are tearing at his uncertainty. He hadn't intended to take her to bed and she wasn't a conquest, but she wasn't entirely wrong about him not knowing what he wants, either; hearing it laid against him, however, has made his struggle seem less than it is, somehow, and he thinks that it might be because she is ignorant of how decidedly he is falling for her – despite all the reasons and his best attempts not to.

Maybe she's right and he shouldn't have kissed her, but the more he gets to know her and the longer they're together the more the lines of his double life start to blur – the more he starts to think that he wants to see where this chemistry of theirs might lead them.

He has a growing suspicion that it's farther than he'd originally thought.

"I'm going home in the morning," she reiterates. "And we can forget this ever happened."

He lets her walk away this time because he doesn't know how to stop her, and he's not entirely sure that he should. He knows that Felicity has been attracted to him for a while, but somewhere along the lines it has started to feel like more – and on his end, as well. He hadn't been aware, really, that the foundation for the way he's feeling now had been set long ago, because it had needed a catalyst for it to come to light; once the change had started, though, there was no stopping it. Now, standing in the inky darkness of his kitchen with the memory of what Felicity's lips feel like, he knows entirely too well just how much he wants to be able to repeat the experience.

Felicity kisses like a siren, and he remembers in near exact detail the look on her face just before she'd shown him just how passionate she could be; it makes the difference astounding when he compares that moment with the one a few seconds later, when she'd informed him that she was not a conquest.

He's been doing so well with being cautious around her, careful not to move too quickly and jeopardize whatever chance he may have with her – whatever chance he may want with her, because he hadn't been certain what that was until now - and now he's afraid he may have ruined it after all. He hadn't intended to kiss her, but seeing her on his kitchen counter had undermined all of his self control; he'd watched in silence as she talked to herself, and to her mom, smiling at the way she'd waved that stupid spoon through the air as if she were a maestro leading an orchestra, and then she'd made that pun … he'd been unable to stay silent then. Her easy joy had reached out to him, much like it had that first night in the foundry when he'd noticed her socks, and he'd been unable to resist her pull.

Oliver finally makes himself move. He retrieves the ice cream and replaces the lid, then slides it back into the freezer, and tosses their spoons in the sink as he heads back to his room.

He can't resist pausing in the hallway, both ears straining to catch any sort of sound coming from her room. She's been through a lot lately, and he didn't mean to add to that, so he thinks that if there's even the slightest hint of a sound he'll knock on her door and apologize – although he's not sure for what, because he does not regret kissing her and it was not a mistake. Well, the timing may prove to have been a mistake, but the actual act was not.

If she's still awake – and he hopes she isn't, because he is not blind to her exhaustion – then she is perfecting the art of silence, because there isn't a sound to be heard.

Tired, frustrated and confused, Oliver lets himself into his room and flops onto the bed. He knows he will not sleep this night, but he needs to make an effort in the off chance that he's wrong.

                                                -----------

The city lights glow golden in the darkness; he likes the way they look from up here, this world of rooftops that he has made his, and he likes that it feels completely disconnected from the world below. This place is his and his alone, the penultimate concrete jungle, and it's the one place that has rules that he understands perfectly; unlike the rest of his life – well, lives, really.

"Oliver," Digg says in his ear, "We found him."

He doesn't need to ask who his partner means.

"Where?"

"Lives in the Glades; 4220 Paxton."

"Is he there now?"

"Dunno yet, hold on."

Oliver's muscles tense in anticipation, and he forces them to relax until he's ready to move. His frustration is hovering just below the surface, even worse than it was the night before; he'd woken up this morning to discover – from Thea, no less – that Felicity was already gone. He'd known instantly that she hadn't gotten any sleep, because he was a habitually early riser, and this morning had been no different. Masking his irritated confusion in nonchalance, he'd asked how Thea had come by the information and been surprised when she'd informed him that Felicity had texted her. So Thea and Felicity were close enough – after what, forty- eight hours? – to be on a texting basis, and he hadn't gotten so much as a note? Or hell, even a text, since she obviously had the time and foresight to text his sister.

He tells himself that he isn't avoiding her, but he had made sure to suit up and hit the rooftops before she'd gotten in that night; which she still hadn't, since Digg is the one on the comm. device.

He refuses to believe, even for a moment, that things are strained enough between them that she won't take over as soon as she arrives. Then again, it's better that she isn't there yet, because he hasn't told her that they are pursuing her attacker, and now that they've found him he doesn't intend to tell her until after he's dealt with him.

_How_ he deals with him remains to be seen.

"He's home," Digg says then. "And he has company."

Oliver springs into action, and it feels good to be stretching his muscles as he accelerates into a sprint and throws himself into the air, feeling the wind brush his cheeks as he falls and then lands on the next roof. This exercise is therapeutic because he doesn't have to think about anything except which route to take across the rooftops and have far he has to jump to get to the next roof. He inhales deeply, clearing his mind of everything but his next task, and zips from shadow to shadow like a wraith.

He arrives in good time; he pauses on the roof opposite the house where his quarry unwittingly waits, careful to mark each point of ingress and egress. The house is small and unkempt, more of a ruin than an actual building, and there is loud music wafting out an open window; he's not certain, but he thinks that it might be Vivaldi. Strange, but he's not here to mull over the man's music choices.

Oliver climbs down the piping of the building he's on and aims for the back door. He's quiet, predatory, eyes darting everywhere as they take in his surroundings; the back door has been left open, so his only obstacle is a flimsy screen door that was probably white at some point, and now can barely be called dirt brown. He stays low as he slips inside, cataloging the filth that seems to coat every corner of the place, and stops just outside what he understands to be the living room.

There are people talking.

"How the hell should I know?" one voice demands.

"Most people with half a brain would have asked!" another voice chides, obviously irritated.

"Did you see the guy, Bernie? You don't question men like that, 'less you wanna end up at the bottom of a river somewhere."

"Well? Did you find her?"

Oliver tenses automatically, his mind immediately calling forth a picture of Felicity. Are they talking about her, or someone else?

"No," the man who isn't Bernie answers after a pause. "She right disappeared, Bern."

"People don't disappear, shit head. Don' know why I keep you aroun', Mikey, ya ain't got shit for brains."

"I'm your brother, Bernie."

"We all have our crosses to bear," Bernie mumbles.

Oliver catapults into the room with an arrow already nocked, which he aims at the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling; the slower one, Mikey, screams and throws himself behind the couch where Bernie is seated. Oliver has another arrow nocked and aimed at Bernie's head before the other man can do more than flinch in surprise.

"You have ten seconds to tell me who you're working for and what they want with Felicity Smoak."

"Who the hell are you, Robin Hood?"

Bernie's voice is curt, but Oliver can see well enough to know that the ham of a man in front of him is rattled. His vision doesn't seem as sharp in the dark as Oliver's, and he plans on using that to his advantage.

"Five seconds."

"I ain't telling you shit, man."

Oliver angles his bow down and releases the arrow; Bernie yells and lets out a stream of curses as it lodges itself in his thigh.

"Someone offered me ten grand to steal something from her, okay?" he yells, cradling his thigh with both hands.

"Who?"

"Some suit from the business district, gave me a fake name."

"What was it?"

"Lord Tennyson; fucking snob."

"What did he want you to steal?"

"A book, some stupid little notebook, alright? Said the pages migh' be blank, but that it was priceless. Anyway, didn' find it, did we? I went myself, since my brother's useless, but the bitch came home and caugh' me by surprise."

Oliver's hand tightens imperceptibly on the bow.

"Feisty little shit she was, but I taught her a lesson, didn' I? Fought like a hell cat, look."

Oliver is close enough to see where Bernie is pointing to his forehead: a long line of stitches, ragged and obviously self-applied, runs from his hairline and down through one eyebrow, narrowly missing the corner of his eye. He spares just a second to acknowledge the pride that swells in his chest.

"What does Lord Tennyson want with this notebook?" Oliver demands.

"Didn' exactly say, obviously. Didn' care to ask, either; just want the money. What the hell do you care, anyway? This Felicity Smoak got beer flavored tits or what?"

"Oliver," Digg's voice says warningly in his ear.

"Who else is working for this man?" he asks, forcing himself to ignore the comment.

"Fuck should I know, man? Good luck to 'em, bitch's fallen off the grid; too bad, I was lookin' forward to another chance to get up her skirt. You seen her, man? Looks like she could use a good _poundin'_ , if ya know what I mean. Girls like tha', they just lookin' for a good ra …"

The arrow hisses as it slices through the air and smashes into Bernie's chest before he can finish the sentence; there's a dull thud as it meets flesh and rips through it, and a soft gurgle as Bernie slumps back onto the couch, dead.

Behind the couch, Mikey starts to wail.

"Oh, whaddja haf' to go an' do that for? Oh, Bern … who's gonna take care o' me now?"

Enraged, Oliver spins on his heel and stalks out of the filthy house, every line of his body alive with tension; his mind keeps recalling images of a frightened Felicity, trembling in his arms and covered with livid bruises.

"Digg," he snaps. "Call in an anonymous tip to the police."

"Already …" the rest of his sentence is lost to a loud curse. Then, "Oliver, that alarm you had installed at Felicity's? It just tripped."

Oliver is sprinting before Digg has finished the sentence.

 


	10. Chapter 10

She's not sure why she does it; usually she just goes to the foundry after work, but tonight she's decided to make a stop at home in between. She tells herself it's because she wants to grab a bite before heading in, because she doubts that there will be time to eat once she gets there, but a snide voice in the back of her mind tells her that it's because she's putting off seeing Oliver. She'd already dodged him this morning by leaving before even he was awake, a feat made easier by the fact that she'd gotten almost no sleep. She'd tried, lying in bed for over two hours wide awake as her masochistic mind had insisted on replaying everything that had happened. Well, mostly it had replayed the kiss, because she had been right: his kisses did burn.

Oliver had set her ablaze, and she is still being consumed; a very large part of Felicity is terrified that the fire might never be extinguished, that her best hope is that it will eventually taper off into little more than a glowing ember.

She should've stopped him, and she really had meant to, but the moonlight had made him seem softer, more attainable, and so she'd closed her eyes and let it happen. His kiss had been gentle, undemanding; she was the one who'd taken it further, until they were nearly prone on his counter top.

 _Sex on the counter makes everything better,_ Kylie's voice pipes in the back of her mind.

Growling in irritation, Felicity lets herself into her apartment and immediately kicks off her shoes and tosses her keys on the receiving table against the wall. She shouldn't waste too much time, because not even the awkwardness of kissing Oliver - only to dismiss him moments later - can get in the way of the work their team does. A quick sandwich and salad maybe, something easy to make that will stay with her for …

Felicity halts mid-stride just near the kitchen, because she has a clear view of the short hallway that leads to her bedroom, and she can see from here that the door is standing half open; the light is off.

One of the perks of living alone is that you never have to close the doors, and Felicity never does; she's fairly certain that she's only closed it twice in the entire time that she's lived here, and one of those times was most certainly not today.

There is a chance that she's just being paranoid, and that she'd been so preoccupied earlier that she didn't realize – or remember – closing it, even slightly, but in the light of recent events she's perfectly fine with paranoia.

She's almost shaking with adrenaline, but she forces herself to take a step backward as quietly as she can, her eyes never leaving the bedroom door. She's cursing herself for not turning on more than the kitchen light, because in this scenario the darkness feels sinister, so she stretches out a hand in the direction where she knows she'll find the light switch; if a measurement of time exists that is shorter than a second, that's how long she looks away.

The door is thrown open so forcefully that it slams into the wall, but Felicity is too focused on what's coming out of the room to care: this man is maybe half the size of her other attacker, but that gives him an advantage in the speed department.

Her brain freezes as the man barrels toward her, rational thought erased and replaced with blind terror; she feels as though she's been petrified, because all she can do is stare.

At the last moment she recovers enough to throw herself down and away from him, his outstretched hand grazing her bicep as he tries to catch her. She recovers her feet, but she's thrown herself in the wrong direction - she's now facing the hallway and the Taser is still in the kitchen.

Felicity races down the hall anyway, ducking into the bathroom and locking herself in; her attacker has recovered quickly and throws what she's assuming is himself against the door, and she can hear the wood groaning and cracking against the onslaught. She doesn't have long before he's inside with her, and she frantically searches the room for anything she can use as a weapon; a profound wave of despair rocks through her as she realizes that there is nothing that will help, that this time looks even more desolate than the last, and then her eyes fall on a pair of scissors sitting quietly on her sink.

She snatches them up greedily, faces the door and takes a deep breath.

_I will not be a victim._

The locking mechanism gives way then and the wood around it splinters as the door swings in, but she barely has time to blink before the man is upon her: horrified, determined, Felicity lunges and shoves the scissors at him with as much as force as she can muster. She has no idea where she's hit him but her hand is warm and wet, and he is doubling over – whether in shock or pain she doesn't know – and she is kicking furiously; her foot connects with what she thinks might be a knee cap and he is falling, and Felicity catapults herself over and away from him.

She has no idea who this man is – or even what - but she can hear him pursuing her; she's too far from the kitchen and she can't remember exactly what drawer the Taser is in, but her eyes fall on the gift that Kylie had brought up with her: a very pristine Louisville Slugger. She redirects, but her bare feet slide on the carpet and she falls forward, barely managing to catch herself on her hands. Her arms come alive with daggers of pain, but she ignores them and tries to regain her feet; her attacker has caught up with her though, and he latches onto her ponytail before she can. Tears blur her vision as her head is yanked backward, and she spares a fleeting thought to thank whatever powers that be he hasn't broken her neck.

Felicity thinks that she might be screaming, and this is what makes her realize that the man attacking her hasn't made a sound beyond a grunt when she was stabbing him.

That's a whole new level of terrifying.

He pushes her to the ground face first and then straddles her, and despite his rather slim build she knows now that he is all muscle, because he is much heavier than he should be.

"I like it when they fight."

The first words he's spoken and they fill Felicity with a terror that is unequaled, a thought that hadn't occurred to her until that very moment; he still has a hold of her hair, but the hand that is free has gathered up what material of her shirt that it can find.

She has read enough news reports to know what happens next.

Her glasses have disappeared, but she is close enough to be able to clearly see the bat where it rests against the side of her couch; maybe, if she can get to it, she will not end up a sad blip on tomorrow's evening news.

Felicity starts to squirm, fighting as hard as she can to lift just a single hip off the floor, but he is heavy and his thighs are like iron; he squeezes so hard that she has to fight for air.

For the rest of her life, Felicity will never understand why he makes the mistake he does next, but she will always be thankful for it: he leans down to whisper in her ear.

She strikes, swinging her elbow up and out so that it connects with his face – maybe an eye – and he is just surprised enough that his balance wavers, and Felicity is shoving herself forward and off the ground.

The moment her hand wraps around the grip of the bat, Felicity pivots on one foot to face the man she knows is coming for her; some part of her registers that there is a window breaking somewhere, but all she sees is the perversely twisted face of her attacker. One step, two, and then he is close enough to reach for her and she is whipping the bat through the air with a fury; it smashes into the side of his head with a dull sort of sound and then he is falling away from her.

When she glances away from the unmoving man it is to find Oliver standing less than three feet away from her, decked out in his Hood gear; her lungs are refusing to hold any air and the sight of him does something to her, strikes a very primal place that she can't name. No matter what is or was or will be happening between them, Oliver means safety – and her undoing.

"Oliver," she whispers, and his name is both a plea and a benediction.

The bat slides from her fingers and onto her floor, and then she knows nothing else.

                                    ----------

"Felicity."

She opens her eyes begrudgingly, blinking repeatedly against the light that beats down on them; there is a face above hers and she startles, pushing herself back into the bed by reflex.

Wait … the bed?

Confused, she glances down to find that she isn't on a bed after all, but a couch; her couch. The face above her belongs to Oliver, who has pushed his hood back and is sitting next to her with one arm stretched out above her and braced on the back of the couch.

The memories of the attack come rushing back and she throws herself forward without thinking, every iota of her being telling her to defend herself, to flee; she only succeeds in throwing herself into Oliver, however, who catches her and clasps her against himself with the arm that is free. He turns his head, so that his lips are near her ear, and his voice is both dangerous and comforting.

"You're okay," he tells her. "I've got you."

He is still dressed as the vigilante and he smells like leather; his arm is strong and protective against her back, and she allows herself one shuddering breath before giving in and wrapping both arms tightly around his torso, just below the arms.

Is he shaking, or is she?

Her attacker is still motionless on the floor, and the sight of him brings a new question to mind.

"Is he dead?" she whispers. "Did I kill him?"

"No," Oliver answers, voice just as quiet. "I did."

She looks at him again, and there is indeed an arrow sticking out of his chest; there's also a pair of scissors lodged in his stomach, or close enough to that area to make no difference. She can't tell from here, but she thinks one of his kneecaps might also be situated at an odd angle.

No one survives a stomach wound, right?

"Did you shoot him so that I wouldn't be the one who killed him?"

"No."

The answer comes so quickly and his voice is so assured that she's not sure what to believe. Could someone really push through a wound like that if it were fatal? Had Oliver put an arrow in him just so that she wouldn't feel responsible for his death?

She still has her arms around him, his free arm is still around her, and she can feel his chest like a wall against hers every time she takes a breath. She doesn't want to think about anything right now, doesn't want to wonder if she's killed a man or why this is happening to her; she turns her head into the length of Oliver's neck, tucking her forehead against the skin just below his ear.

The hand that had been braced against the couch wraps around her then, both arms holding her so tightly that she might complain about being crushed under different circumstances.

"How did you know?" she inquires.

There are sirens in the distance.

"I had an alarm installed," he answers. "Didn't get a chance to tell you before you disappeared."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care about that, Felicity; all that matters is that you're safe."

He turns his head toward her slightly, so that she can feel his stubble against her forehead, and she doesn't know why but the action feels so intimate that she holds him tighter.

"I think he was going to kill me," she grinds out, the words like sawdust in her mouth. "And I have no idea why."

For a very long moment Oliver is crushing her, and then he is pulling away from her and one hand comes up to cup her cheek; his eyes are intense, even in the darkness, and then she can feel his chest vibrating against her own as he speaks.

"This'll never happen again, Felicity; I don't care if you have to move into the mansion, or I have to move in here."

"You can't be certain …"

The sirens are getting closer.

"I can, and I am."

"Did you call the cops?"

"Alarm did it for me."

"You need to go, Oliver; you can't be here when they get here."

She is still clutching him as if her life depends on it, and his hand is still curved around her cheek.

He hesitates before speaking. "I'll be outside."

She makes herself let go, and her arms fall to her side as if they are made of lead. He is slower in releasing her, but the sirens sound as if they are directly below them now, and so he finally pulls away and sweeps to his feet.

"If you need me … " he says, and she nods.

He disappears out the window and she barely has time to stand before her front door is being kicked open; the sound makes her jump and she can't help recalling the moment her bathroom door gave way, but she forces herself to stay still as the police descend upon her.

Detective Lance is there, of course, and everyone has questions: when did she get home and what tipped her off and why exactly is there an arrow in the man's chest? She has no idea what she's saying but she answers anyway; she tells them in as much detail as she can about the attack, completely oblivious to the looks that are being shared between Lance and his counterparts.

She has no answer when they ask her how the Hood got involved or why she should be of any import to the vigilante; her thoughts are stuck on the sound of splintering wood and cracking bones.

When she looks down at her hands, they are covered in blood.

Felicity objects when they declare that she should go to the hospital, although she's not sure why; she thinks it might be because she knows that Oliver is just outside her apartment somewhere, and try as she might she can't bear the thought of being away from him – even if she can't see him.

The coroner comes to remove the body and Detective Lance is asking her again what she thinks the man wanted and if she's sure that she doesn't want to go to the hospital; she thanks him and tells him that no, she's fine and she thinks she might go stay with a friend for a while.

It's a lie, but she doesn't care.

She has no idea when he arrived, but the next thing she knows the body and the police are gone and Digg is standing inside her door; he closes and locks it, then pauses to punch some numbers into a keypad that she hadn't noticed before moving toward her. She's back on the couch and the bat is still lying where she dropped it, and nothing in life makes sense anymore.

The words come from nowhere. "I am not a victim."

"No," Digg tells her gently. "No, Felicity, you're not."

Oliver steps out of her bedroom in regular clothes and she is reduced to a trembling shadow of herself; he notices and steps to her side quickly, long legs eating up the distance between them. He sits down next to her and she's not sure if she's falling into him or he's pulling her, but she's against his chest again and his heartbeat is steady against her cheek.

They stay wrapped up in each other for what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes; she has no idea where Digg has ended up, but she knows he isn't gone.

The words come suddenly, and once she's started talking she can't stop.

"Sometimes I just want to disappear," she whispers against him. "Get lost in the world and pretend that I'm someone else, that my problems don't exist; I want to take in the beauty of the world and remember why life is worth living."

Oliver doesn't reply.

"Is this how you feel?" she finally asks.

"How?"

His voice is like honey over gravel.

It takes her a minute to answer. "Destroyed."

His arms tighten around her and he presses a kiss to her forehead; she'll think about that later.

"I'm not sure I'll ever feel safe again."

Digg appears with a sandwich and she makes herself disengage from Oliver long enough to wash the blood off her hands and eat it.

When she looks at Digg his face is kind, but drawn; he paces endlessly.

"How did he get in?" she makes herself ask after a while.

"Broke through the bedroom window," Digg answers.

Oliver retrieves the remote to her television and turns it on; it kicks automatically to the DVD player and the last thing she watched, which just so happens to be Much Ado About Nothing.

Instead of pushing play, however, he takes her by the hand and pulls her toward her bedroom; she hesitates for a second, until he reminds her that he's with her and she's okay, and then she follows him quietly.

There is glass littering the floor in front of her bed and a night wind playing with her curtains, but Oliver doesn't let her dwell on it for long.

"Pajamas," he says softly.

"Looking for a free peep show, Mr. Queen?" she quips, and it's the first show of spirit she's made all night.

Oliver steps out of the room long enough for her to change, turning his back to her because he understands without asking that she is too afraid to close the door. Her bedroom is directly across from her bathroom, however, and so it is that when she emerges she's greeted with the sight of broken wood and a door handle that's hanging on by the barest thread.

He seems to notice where her gaze has fallen, because he slips one warm, calloused hand into hers and leads her back to the couch; there is no sign of Digg. Oliver drops sideways into the couch, propping himself against the arm and stretching both legs out as far as he can. A distant part of her wonders if she should protest, but then he's pulling her down onto the couch with him; Felicity drapes herself over him so that they are chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, the crown of her head coming to rest under his chin. He pushes play on the remote and then tucks it next to him for easy access; two long, iron arms wrap around her, one just below her shoulder blades and one across her middle.

"I'm sorry about disappearing," she murmurs against him, although she thinks she may have apologized already. "Oliver?"

"Hmm?" he hums against her.

"I'm going to need a lot of ice cream."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've got some pretty big Oliver development in this chapter - yay! I've done my best to keep it in character and not too sappy or anything, but it was difficult because I've been watching North & South so I'm a little giddy. I'm also dying for some Olicity goodness, so, ya know ... but we're on our way! Oh, and someone - I'm sorry, I don't remember who - mentioned that in reality Felicity's apartment would still be an active crime scene: that's very true, but I sort of ignored it in the name of artistic license. Anyway, thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you guys like it.

The sun is setting over the city, the sky shot through with long stretches of skinny clouds and great swathes of vibrant pink light; Felicity is lying on her back and staring up at it, soft music billowing up from what he assumes is her phone. He's careful to make noise as he approaches her, purposefully making his footsteps fall heavier than they usually do, but she makes no sign that she hears him. He stops when he's only a few feet away, watching her unabashedly, unsure of what he should say – or if he should say anything at all.

He wonders if she can truly be comfortable with only a blanket to separate her from the cool cement.

"You're staring."

Her voice is calm, maybe even a little teasing, and he is thankful for that; she hasn't been completely herself in the last three days.

"So are you," he retorts.

He steps toward her, taking in the sight of her in her blue jeans and t-shirt, so casual and unlike the Felicity he usually sees. Her telltale glasses are missing, broken in the scuffle, and it's strange to see her without them. She's been so subdued since the attack, so uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn; he misses her usual vivacity, her chatter and breathless tirades.

Oliver didn't notice it at first, but there is a bottle of whiskey next to her; he's fairly certain the label says Johnny Walker.

"What are you doing up here?"

"Pretending," she answers.

She finally turns her head enough to look at him, to watch him as he's been watching her, and they pass several seconds in silence before she pats the open blanket next to her.

"C'mon."

She's already turned her attention back to the sunset; Oliver lies down next to her, the cement of the rooftop beneath him cool enough to penetrate the blanket. The buzz and din of the city is nothing but white noise up here, a low growl under the music that's playing; there is a breeze, fresh but not quite brisk, and every time it passes he can smell citrus.

"When's the last time you actually stopped to appreciate the world, Oliver?"

He takes a breath, holds it, and lets it out in a long puff. The last time he appreciated the world? He's not sure, really: before the island? Never? He doesn't remember ever really taking the time to appreciate something like a sunset before the island, unless he was appreciating what it could offer him: a romantic prospect with a woman, an opportunity to appear sensitive. He'd been too preoccupied with trying to stay alive while he was on the island to appreciate much of anything; when he'd finally gotten off of it, he'd appreciated things like second chances and perseverance and being alive, but not the world – not really.

Everything after the island has consisted of justice and secrets and … Laurel, of discretion and subtlety and denial.

"I don't know," he tells her finally. Then, "what are you pretending?"

Felicity turns her head to look at him once more, and he mimics the motion; a dangerous idea, he thinks, because they are closer than he's realized and her breath is warm and smells ever so slightly of liquor. He thinks about the feel of her hair against his hand when they'd kissed; the easy weight of her draped against him when she'd fallen asleep on him that first night.

"That nothing exists outside of this moment; that my world is nothing more than sunsets and music and gentle breezes."

"That I'd never shown up in the back of your car with a gunshot wound?"

"No. Although I do sometimes wonder what would've happened if I hadn't offered to help find Walter."

Oliver has been faced with many things lately, many epiphanies and revelations that have done nothing but upset the balance of his life and make him question everything he's thought he wanted, and her words have triggered a thought that brings on another such moment. Only now, when it occurs to him that it would probably be kinder to push her away, to refuse to accept her assistance anymore, does he realize how forcefully he wants her to stay. He knows that he can do his work as the Hood without Felicity, or Digg, because he'd started without them, but he doesn't want to. He'd never intended to have them, and now that he does the thought of losing them – of having them walk away – is … abhorrent.

Not that he will admit that to anyone but himself.

"Felicity, if you want out …" he forces the words out, but can't make himself finish the sentence.

"I don't," she answers decisively. "I didn't mean to sound regretful, Oliver; it was just a train of thought, a 'what if' scenario. I've been up here a while, my mind's been wandering."

"Some people would be worried," he tells her nonchalantly, "finding you alone up here with sad music and a bottle of whiskey."

"But not you," she amends, and her tone has turned teasing again.

"Of course not."

"And it's not sad music, thank you very much – it's relaxing; soothing."

"And the whiskey?" he prods.

She sighs and finally turns her eyes away from his. "It's silly."

The last time he heard her say those words was just before she'd professed being afraid to stay in her apartment, and now … well, now here they were.

Felicity pulls herself up into a sitting position, pulling her legs in and crossing them over each other; Oliver follows, bumping her shoulder with his as he does so.

"It's not silly," he reassures her.

"Making toasts." She's looking out over the buildings and she drops her gaze to her lap before bringing it back up to him.

For some reason, the idea of Felicity alone on the roof and making toasts to things like sunsets and good music makes the corner of his mouth turn up in a half smile, because it is sweet and so true to her character that he can't help it.

He reaches behind her, his arm just brushing across her back as he does so, and grabs the bottle of whiskey; he pulls it to him and twists off the cap, Felicity watching him the whole time.

"No glass?" he teases.

"Don't be a wuss," she fires back.

"To the world," he says, tipping the neck of the bottle slightly toward her, "so underappreciated."

He takes a pull and then goes to set it down in front of them, but Felicity reaches out to take it from him, their fingers overlapping on the glass.

"Isn't there someone out there you should be putting the fear of God into?"

"It can wait." He's somewhat surprised to feel how truly he means it.

"Oliver," Felicity says, her tone softly chiding. "I'll be fine; you can't keep putting everything off because you're afraid to leave me. Alone, I mean, afraid to leave me alone."

She's right, as she so often is, but he's not of a mind to care at the moment. It's important that he's here; that she knows that she … that her safety is important to him. There have been, and will continue to be, many times when he can't or won't put her first, and he won't lie and say otherwise; but right now, he's exactly where he needs to be.

"Felicity …"

Oliver is afraid to admit that he thinks her name is quickly becoming his favorite word, that the way she seems to soften when she hears it is his favorite sight. He likes seeing the affect he has on her; he wonders if she knows how she affects him.

"… Make a toast," he forces himself to say finally, because he is in danger of kissing her again.

"To friends, for putting up with you."

He chuckles as she takes a drink, because he's not sure if she's talking about herself or him. She doesn't hand him the bottle immediately, instead pulling at the corner of the label with one purple fingernail; she doesn't seem intent to share what she's thinking so he turns his gaze to the city. The sun is mostly down now and the sky is just dark enough that the stars are beginning to appear; the streetlights and building lights have come on and created a sea of artificial oranges and yellows.

"I'm afraid to think of the person I might be today if I hadn't gone with my father," he admits suddenly. "What sort of man I would have been."

The words have come from nowhere, born out of a strange and sudden desire to share something personal with her; she has shared so much with him, telling him about her mother and answering his questions when he'd asked. Felicity is a private person, but she has always been the more open of the two of them, more willing to share herself with him; he will never be able to share all of himself, he knows, maybe not even a large majority, but he knows that he wants to try – for her.

Twice now he's almost lost Felicity, without ever really having had her in the first place; twice someone has tried to take away the chance that he can now admit to wanting. Everything in his life is difficult and confusing, and this – if she's willing to let there be a 'this' – will likely be the same because there is no shortage of obstacles. Some of which will be of their own making – well, his making, mostly. For the first time in weeks he feels as though he's finally seeing things clearly: he loves Laurel, but he can't erase their past or the fact that they will never have a healthy or stable foundation again. He wants her to be happy, truly, but he wants to be happy himself, and he realizes now that such happiness can be found in the woman sitting next to him.

He doesn't just want Felicity, he needs her; he needs her sweetness, her determination and lateral thinking and flare.

Laurel makes him want to forget, but Felicity makes him want to remember; she makes him feel like he _can_ remember, that not all the memories have to be painful.

He had told Makenna once that he'd lost the part of himself that enjoyed being alive; he knows, without knowing how, that Felicity can help him find it again. He'll always be a little less than whole, because everything he's been through and everything he's done – is doing – has a price, but she has it in her to be the one to restore him.

 _She will be the light of your life,_ Kylie had said, and he believes it even more now than he did then.

"Pretend," Felicity says next to him, and he pulls himself from his thoughts to look at her. "Pretend, even if you don't believe it, that something different would have happened to make you a better man than you were."

He smiles at her and holds out a hand for the bottle, which she finally relinquishes to him; the label is barely hanging on now.

"You've almost got it off without a single tear," he tells her, mock impressed.

"They aren't redeemable for sex if they're torn," she quips.

The color rushes into her cheeks so quickly that it's as if a veil has been dropped; he doesn't know whether to laugh or be alarmed.

"It was a game," she starts to ramble, "a stupid game that we used to play in college that if you could get the labels off the bottle in one piece you'd give them to the person you, ya know, liked or whatever and then … we never actually did it, I mean, we'd tear them off and joke about it and then just collect them into a huge pile to throw away at the end of the night … we never actually slept together … not that we didn't have sex, I just mean …"

Oliver can't contain it anymore: he dissolves into gales of laughter, deep and true and unrestrained. Felicity is blushing so ferociously that she's a perfect shade of scarlet and she brings a hand up to cover her eyes as she shakes her head.

"This has to be a medical condition," she whines, "because this is just ridiculous! My brain, why does my brain make me say these things? I need a muzzle."

His sides hurt and he hasn't laughed like that in such a long time, and Felicity is both adorable and beautiful when she's flustered; it hits him again, the stark truth of nearly having lost her, of almost having to face the rest of his life knowing he'd never hear one of these rambles again or see the color standing in her cheeks. He puts the bottle of whiskey down and then pulls her into his side with one arm, unable to go another moment without having some form of contact with her.

She doesn't resist the contact, doesn't try to break away; she turns into him so that she can wrap both arms around his middle section, and he drops a cheek against her hair. He's still chuckling.

"I could be a sideshow," she tells him. "If I ever lose my job in the IT department, or, hell, if I ever need extra money."

"You'd have to find a circus first."

"Look who you're talking to; you can find anything on the Internet, and the Internet is my domain. I'm queen of the digital world. I'm totally having that added to my name plate at work."

"I've never noticed a name plate in your office," he replies.

"Not the point."

They finally fall silent; the sky above them is dark and littered with stars, and the city below is as quiet as it can be. Felicity's phone is still playing music, a song that he doesn't recognize, and she is tucked safely against his side.

There will be work to be done tomorrow, secrets to uncover and people to track, but right now Oliver is happy to be on this roof with this woman; they can pretend that nothing exists outside this moment.

 

Oliver opens his eyes quickly, his body tensing in preparation for a fight, because the feeling of being watched has broken through his slumber.

The person staring, however, is Digg. He's tucked into the loveseat with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a quiet but discerning look on his face. Oliver knows that look: it means he's thinking something through, that he has an opinion that he's going to share – even if it isn't received well.

"What?" he queries softly.

Digg raises an eyebrow and nods very pointedly at Felicity, who is fast asleep against Oliver's chest. Again.

"What're you doing, man?"

"Well I was sleeping," Oliver replies, already feeling defensive.

"I see that."

"You really think now's the time to have this conversation?"

He glances down at Felicity, but her breathing is still even and slow; she hasn't shown any signs of waking.

"When else would we have it? You've hardly left her side the last few days, not even to Hood up. You're walking a fine line, Oliver."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Look, man, you know Felicity likes you, and you're setting her up for real pain if you keep going on the way you are. She's not someone you can pick up and drop whenever you feel like it."

"Diggle," he says warningly, feeling his ire rise.

"What happens the next time you go running off after Laurel?" Digg continues, his countenance hardening.

"We're not having this conversation," Oliver grinds out, keeping his voice low.

"I've seen the way you've been looking at her, Oliver, even if she hasn't; I know that look. She's been through a lot lately, and the last thing she needs is to be fooled into thinking that …"

"I'm only going to say this once, Diggle: my relationship with Felicity is none of your business."

"Your relationship?" Digg repeats, both eyebrows rising. "The welfare of my friends is my business, man; do you hear yourself? When did 'friendship' turn into 'relationship'? And what about Laurel, your girlfriend – remember her?"

"We aren't dating anymore, and why does everyone think I would do that – to anyone?"

"Do what?" a new, sleepy voice asks.

He glances down to see Felicity blinking repeatedly as she pulls herself into wakefulness.

"Nothing," he answers quickly.

"You totally suck at lying," she counters.

She lays a soft hand against his chest as a brace so that she can pull herself up and off him; he moves his long legs off the couch so she has somewhere to sit and sits up, then decides to stand.

"Digg made coffee," he tells her, hoping that she won't question him.

"Oliver."

Of course; it was too much to hope for that she wouldn't press him, because this is Felicity.

"Digg's worried about you," he finally answers. "Now – coffee?"

"Yes, please."

He can hear her reassuring Digg that she's okay as he steps into her kitchen, and he almost holds his breath as he waits to hear if Digg will present the same argument to her as he'd done to Oliver. He retrieves two coffee cups, but he's intent on trying to listen; it doesn't sound like Digg is saying anything important.

It's barely seven thirty in the morning according to the clock on the stove, and Oliver's mind is already abuzz. Digg is being a good friend – to both of them, even if it feels a little more like an attack at the moment – and Oliver can't fault him for his concern for Felicity. In truth, Oliver hadn't been aware that any sign of his growing feelings for her had made an appearance; true, he had been sticking close to her the last few days, but he'd thought his reasons for doing so were obvious. Then again, his proximity to her was in itself an oddity, because he's a man of action; in times of peril and threat, he's usually the first to disappear in search of the source. He is a man of offense, not defense, and yet he has allowed himself to become passive, rather than aggressive.

_You can't keep putting everything off because you're afraid to leave me._

Damn Felicity and her uncanny way of seeing things that he doesn't.

He _is_ afraid to leave her, but he can't be sure of the reasons: because she's in danger, obviously, and yet that is also the first and best argument for him to get out there and find out what is going on and who the ringleader is. So why hasn't he done that yet? Why has he allowed himself to be idle?

"You firing your own coffee cups in there?" Felicity calls then.

"Need a better kiln," he answers.

Why does he know how much creamer she likes in her coffee?

He heads back to the living room with a cup of coffee in each hand; Felicity reaches for one eagerly, smiling and offering a murmured thank you as she does so.

"Kylie's coming up today," she says, taking a timid sip. "I tried to tell her not to, but she wasn't having it."

"Why?" Digg asks. "Won't having her here make you feel better?"

She nods. "Yes, but I don't want her tangled up in whatever's going on. What if something happens to her? And how am I going to help you at the foundry if she's here? I very well can't bring her with me."

"I think it's better if you stay away from the foundry for a while," Oliver starts, but she doesn't let him finish; Felicity turns large, sparking eyes on him, her face a mix of fierce and worried.

"Oh no you don't, Oliver Queen," she fires off. "I know where you're going with this and you can just stop right there. I'm not having any of that 'push her away for her own safety' crap that …"

She's worked herself into quite the frenzy, which surprises him, because she seems as if she's been waiting for him to do exactly that; he reaches for her unconsciously, putting the hand that isn't holding his coffee cup over the area just above her knee.

"Felicity," he says calmly, and falls quiet but continues to glare at him. "You didn't let me finish. You're right, you can't come to the foundry while Kylie's here, but that's a good thing; for all we know you're being watched. And we won't let anything happen to Kylie, or to you – okay?"

He squeezes her knee reassuringly and then retracts his hand, only then realizing that Digg is watching him; it irritates him a little, but he doesn't let on.

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet; I want you and Kylie to come stay at the mansion until this is sorted out."

"Not …"

"Negotiable," he finishes for her, and she's glaring at him again. "Your apartment isn't safe; the mansion has better security, and no one will think to look for you there."

"And what if they do?" she challenges. "Then Thea will be in danger as well."

"Thea's visiting Walter, so she won't be there."

"But you said those two guys were, ya know, out of the picture."

"Yes, but whomever they were working for is still out there, and obviously out to get you."

"Which is stupid," she starts to rant, obviously irritated again. "Their information is seriously outdated, because Walter gave me that book – what? – almost two years ago? And if they know that I had it, why don't they know I gave it to you?"

"That's what we have to find out; until we do, you'll be safe at the mansion."

He can see that she wants to argue, but doesn't have anything to argue with; his points are all valid – he knows, because he spent more than a few minutes thinking of them in anticipation for this exact moment.

"I hate it when you do that," she hisses. "Being all …"

"Reasonable?" he offers.

"Careful," Digg cuts in before she can answer. "You two are starting to sound an awful lot like a bickering couple."

Oliver catches the real warning thinly veiled in the joking one, the hidden call back to their earlier conversation, and his eyes snap to the other man in irritation. He has enough to deal with as it is, he doesn't need to add being at odds with Digg to the list.

Someone is knocking on the door then, keeping them from continuing the conversation; Oliver and Digg move at the same time, setting coffee mugs on tables and rising to their feet. Digg is closer to the door, and he puts one hand in the vicinity of his gun as he moves toward it; Oliver feels Felicity stand behind him and move closer, so he puts one hand out and behind him to stop her.

Digg glances through the peephole and then relaxes visibly; he unlocks and opens the door and then Kylie is sweeping into the room like a whirlwind.

"Where is she?"


	12. Chapter 12

She comes awake with a gasp and a start, a great dark cloud in her breast that feels like it's strangling her with every second that passes. She casts a glance at the clock on the bedside table: the red-orange numbers proclaim it to be just past three-thirty in the morning.

Felicity hasn't been asleep more than thirty minutes.

Distressed, she throws the duvet away from her and climbs out of the bed to cross to the window; she throws the tall windows open, letting in the cool night breeze and forcing herself to breathe in long, deep breaths. She feels flushed and too warm, but the contrast of the cool air against her skin gives rise to goose bumps; it smells a little like rain.

She wishes it would start raining right now.

This is her fourth night at the mansion, and the fourth night that Felicity has gotten almost no sleep. There is weariness hanging on to every inch of her, body and mind, and yet she cannot find escape, no matter how she tries. She recognizes this inability to sleep from the first time she'd fought for her life, and yet it feels different now: darker, more forbidding … worse, somehow. She'd escaped this those first few nights at her apartment, because she had always fallen asleep next to – or on – Oliver, and she sees now that he had acted as a barrier between her and the terrors that haunt her so mercilessly. When he'd brought them to the mansion, Felicity had considered – and then summarily dismissed – the idea of asking him to continue their unspoken arrangement. It was too hard, she rationalized, too complicated; at her apartment they'd always slept on the couch, and the idea of asking him to stay in her room – or for her to come to his – was so intimate that she couldn't make herself say the words. Her heart is already in enough trouble where Oliver is concerned.

She's not sure what's keeping her from going to Kylie, because she knows that her friend would offer nothing but support; she thinks maybe it has something to do with wanting to conquer this on her own.

She's beginning to feel like that might not be possible.

Felicity's thoughts are so dark, so heavy upon her that she knows there is no point in trying to lay down again. She leaves the window open but turns away; the wind as it rustles the long curtains is a soft ruffling sound behind her. She needs to move, to find something to occupy her mind other than the morbid thoughts of death that have awoken her, so she wanders out of her room and into the halls of the mansion. The house is quiet and dark around her, and one part of her cherishes that just as the other shrinks from it; this is probably the safest place for her to be, but she's not sure if she'll ever believe in the idea of safety again.

She sighs in irritation, and maybe even a little disgust: these depressing thoughts are not normal to her and she hates that she can't seem to shake them. They're especially powerful at night, when there is less to distract her.

She travels aimlessly, forcing down the rush of adrenaline and fear that tries to overtake her every time she passes a deep pocket of shadows that, she can't help but notice, would be a perfect hiding spot.

The thought of shadows and hiding brings her thoughts to rest on Oliver, and she wonders if he's returned from the foundry yet. She hadn't heard him come in earlier, but she knows from experience that he moves with a preternatural silence, and is capable of appearing out of seemingly nowhere. Perhaps he'd returned in the half an hour she'd been asleep.

She's been helping where she can, of course, using the hours after Kylie goes to sleep to pull out her tablet and research everything she can think of that might give them a lead; there hasn't been much to find, but she's told Oliver of it all on the few occasions that she's seen him. They haven't spent much time together these last few days because he has thrown himself into the hunt for this man who calls himself Lord Tennyson, and she thinks maybe that's a good thing; she's too tired to maintain the dance they seem to have found themselves in.

Felicity finds herself wandering into a room that she hasn't seen before, and she's so certain that she's seeing a line of books that she moves to the wall and fumbles for the light switch. As soon as they are on, her lingering sadness disappears in the face of what she's found: a library. The walls are hidden behind several elegant bookshelves, all lined with row upon row of spines that beg to be inspected. Her eyes, which are already tired from having slept in her contacts, are going to hate her soon, because she fully intends to investigate.

The rational part of her mind tells her to go upstairs and exchange her contacts for glasses, to minimalize the headache she anticipates having later, but she dismisses the idea. She hasn't been able to bring herself to wear her glasses again, because there's still a large part of her that feels as though she's just waiting to be attacked again, and she can't afford the risk of losing her glasses this time.

So contacts – and headache – it is.

She picks a shelf to start with and loses herself in the task of reading the titles proudly displayed there. The sheer number of books is impressive, the wide range of subjects even more so: books on accounting, finance, and business begin to give way to ones of travel, history and science. Some of them look brand new, or close enough not to make a difference, and others look well worn and loved; she wonders who the avid readers are in the Queen family, and if each person has a favorite book stowed somewhere on these shelves.

When the titles begin to announce novels, her heart thrills in excitement and she stops moving to give them a good once over. She thinks she spies a few first editions of the classics and it makes her smile. Her eyes instinctively seek out Dickens, and she is somewhat surprised to see that there is no copy of _Great Expectations_ to be found; a long, sad moment passes in which she thinks about her own beloved copy and how perfect it would have looked on this shelf, among its peers.

Felicity is mildly surprised to see titles like _Beauty and the Beast_ and _Grimm's Fairytales_ , but then she discovers the complete works of Jane Austen and forgets all about it; feeling like the proverbial kid with their hand in the cookie jar, she reaches out and carefully pulls down _Persuasion_. The spine shows a little wear, so it's been read before, but is not one of the well- loved crowd. She tucks it in against her chest and goes back to perusing, but doesn't make it far before she's retrieving the copy of _North and South_ and tucking it in with her other borrowed ware.

Two books is good for tonight, she thinks, and now that she knows this room exists she will be visiting it – and borrowing from it – as often as she can. She turns away from the shelves and glances over the furnishings, but decides to return to her room to read; she doesn't want to alarm Kylie if she should come looking for her, and in the off chance that she does get tired she'll be closer to her bed.

She turns off the light and treks back upstairs, both books clutched to her as if they can shield her from the weariness and dark thoughts that plague her. Felicity has always had a powerful imagination, and often has to struggle to remind herself that she has a life outside of her daydreams to live; right now though, nothing sounds better than escaping into a fictional world. She needs the draw, the pull of books to take her away from the tangle of her life and to a place of safety. She's chosen her escape well: she's read both books before – several times – and looks forward to greeting characters that are some of her oldest and dearest friends.

She's a few feet from her room when the muffled sound of footsteps startles her with a painful flash of adrenaline; she stills, not even daring to breathe, until her brain registers that it's just Oliver.

"Felicity?" he calls quietly.

She can't immediately find her voice, strangled as it is in her throat, and he's come to a stop in front of her before she can manage an answer.

When she speaks, her voice is low and gravelly. "You startled me."

"Why are you awake?"

Felicity makes herself focus on the details: the dark V-neck t-shirt and grey sweats, the light scent of fresh sandalwood …

"Hey."

A strong hand wraps itself around her elbow, warm and steady, and then two blue eyes are peering into hers.

"Can't sleep," she answers finally. "You just get home?"

"Long night; you could say the same, from the looks of it."

She glances down at herself surreptitiously: she's wearing mismatching pajamas of blue shorts and an oversized grey t-shirt, her hair is probably a disheveled mess, and her face is free of any hint of makeup so there's no hiding the dark rings around her eyes from too many sleepless nights.

Then another thought occurs to her, and her mouth twists into a lopsided grin.

"What?" Oliver asks.

"We're opposite," she says, motioning from his clothes to hers.

"C'mon," he says, and he still has hold of her elbow so she has no choice but to follow.

He leads her into his room. She's never been in here before and her eyes automatically start to roam, looking for clues of the man he was and traces of the man she knows.

The room smells like sandalwood and … him.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and then pulls her down next to him; his eyes are bright, his expression calm and open, and he asks her why she can't sleep.

His question sparks that darkness in her, that weight in her breast that creeps out to wind around her heart and squeeze until she thinks it'll stop beating; her thoughts spin away like a toy top to circle around that one pervasive fear that won't go away.

"I'm afraid of dying," she spits suddenly, because the anxiety is back in full force and she can't think of any other way to say it. "And not like in the 'oh-I'm-afraid-of-spiders' sort of way, but in the 'I'm-so-terrified-I-can't-breathe' sort of way and I can't stop thinking about it, Oliver, every time I close my eyes I'm afraid I'll never open them again and I wake up in a cold sweat because …"

Her words are arrested as he pulls her firmly against him, one thick arm wrapping around her back and the other coming up so that his hand can press against the curtain of her hair, holding her cheek against its spot on his chest.

"Why can't I stop thinking about it?" she whispers into the fabric of his shirt.

"You've been through a lot, Felicity."

"But how do I make it stop?"

One arm is folded between them, and she doesn't know where the books have gone to but her empty hand comes up to rest palm open against his chest; she can feel the knot of scar tissue through his shirt. She starts to mentally list the scars she knows are there, and her hand unconsciously begins to graze across his chest in something close to a caress as it tries to seek them out.

She doesn't notice the subtle tightening of the muscles beneath her hand, or the way the heartbeat against her ear picks up.

They don't talk about his time on the island, but she's studied his scars enough to think that someone else caused them – she doesn't want to even think the word torture, but there's nothing else for it - maybe not all of them, but enough; too many. She wants to ask him how he survived, how he came to terms with it all or if he still struggles with it sometimes, but the words won't come.

Oliver shifts away from her then, carefully disengaging himself, and then she watches mutely as he crosses to partly close the bedroom door and then switch off the light. Her heart leaps as soon as the darkness descends, but this time it's not because of the anxiety: she is suddenly very aware of where she is and who is moving toward her.

"Lay down, Felicity."

Oh! How right she'd been, being in a bedroom with him is intimate, too intimate, because it's his bedroom and she can feel the weight of his gaze even in the darkness. Despite that and the little wild flutter of her heart, she is too tired to even pretend like she wants to leave.

He's pulled back the duvet and she stands to move closer, unable to hide the shiver that sweeps over her as her shoulder brushes his chest; she crawls partway across the bed and then sinks down into the pillows just as she feels him settle down next to her.

They are facing each other, and she can just make out his features and the shine of his eyes in the darkness.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs. "You're safe. I'm right here."

There are a few inches between them, but she feels one hand come to rest on her hip; his touch is soft, comforting.

"You smell good," she tells him.

She's asleep in moments.

                                                --------

There's a soft rustling sound coming from somewhere, and this is what finally penetrates her unconscious mind enough to wake her. When her eyelids flit open, she is greeted with a swath of dark cloth that she can't immediately place. The rustle comes again, and the dark expanse rises toward her and then retreats, and all at once she realizes that she is pressed against Oliver's chest.

Right. She's just spent the night in Oliver's room, in his bed, with him – and if she's not mistaken (and she's not) that's his arm draped across her waist.

That's also both of her feet wrapped around one of his.

"Feel better?"

Her traitorous body shivers at the sound of his voice, scratchy and gentle in that way that she's learning to associate with him.

She doesn't know what to think when the arm around her waist tightens.

"Yes," she answers, but can't make herself raise her head. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven."

"What?"

She's so shocked that her head slides back against the sheets and she finds herself staring straight into Oliver's blue eyes. He looks wide- awake; there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Why didn't you wake me up? I'm gonna be late …"

Felicity starts to extricate herself from him, but is stopped by a gentle exertion of pressure on her waist.

"It's Saturday," he informs her. "You're not late."

"Oh." She can't think of anything else to say, because he's still holding her – and she's letting him. She likes the intimacy, even if she shouldn't.

She's not certain anymore why she shouldn't like it. There's definitely something between them, as she is being made more and more aware of, and he's no longer dating Laurel; just because he's not dating her, however, that doesn't mean that she's out of the picture – that he doesn't still care for her.

Two near death experiences, however, have made her look at things a little differently; she knows that her feelings for Oliver have gone past the 'crush' stage, and who is she to tell him how he feels or what he wants? She's afraid, yes, because she doesn't want to invest herself in something that isn't going anywhere – but if he decides that he wants to try and be something more, does she really want to refuse him?

Would she rather take a chance and possibly be disappointed, or deny herself a shot at happiness – transient or otherwise?

"Solving world hunger?"

His voice draws her out of her thoughts and back into the present, where she's still face to face with a deliciously scruffy Oliver Queen.

"Sorry," she murmurs, and she thinks she's started to blush. "How did you sleep?"

"Pretty well, until Kylie came running in panicking because your room was empty and she couldn't find you."

Now she's _definitely_ blushing, and Oliver is smiling.

"How did I not hear her?"

"You were out of it. How long has it been since you've gotten a decent night's sleep, Felicity?"

"Um …"

He sighs in something akin to exasperation and opens his mouth to say something, but Kylie's voice cuts him off.

"Coffee's ready!"

One of Oliver's eyebrows shoots up and it makes Felicity smile.

"She's got quite the lungs, if she's yelling at us from the kitchen."

"You've never heard her when she's angry."

"And I don't plan to. C'mon."

She tries not to miss the weight of his arm or watch him as he pulls himself out of bed, but she can't help it; for a moment her mind is busy painting pictures of what it would be like to wake up with him like this as something more than they are now.

Oliver's hand appears in front of her and she takes it automatically, clambering to her feet as he pulls her.

She doesn't know what to think when they make their way downstairs, still hand in hand.


	13. Chapter 13

Oliver stays at the foundry long after Digg has left. He's still half seated on the long metal table that holds the case for his bow, his thoughts disordered and many miles away from the present. He's disappointed and apprehensive but mostly angry, because they have exhausted every idea they've had and still haven't been able to track down this Lord Tennyson person. Ten days have passed since the last attack on Felicity's life, and they have nothing to show in the form of progress – he has nothing to show. The threat to his IT girl's life and safety is still out there, and he's failed to neutralize it; the knowledge makes him irritable and boorish. He'd snapped at Digg more than once tonight even though it's not his fault that their quarry has apparently disappeared. He is aware of this tension and the way it makes him act, so he's made himself stay here longer than necessary so that he can master himself before returning to the mansion, because the last thing Felicity needs from him is short words and a bad attitude.

He takes his time changing out of his leather ensemble and slipping back into his normal t-shirt and jeans. When he's finally ready to make his way out into the streets, the clock on his phone tells him it's almost one in the morning. He's been staying later and later in the last few days because he just can't bring himself to accept that another of his targets has eluded him. He knows that Felicity is restless, that she wants to go home and hates being kept away from the foundry, and he doesn't know how to tell her that he can't guarantee her safety.

The route he takes home is long and roundabout. The growl of his motorcycle beneath him is soothing; he allows himself to relax and finally acknowledge all the thoughts that have been clamoring for his attention all night. Not surprisingly, most of them center on Felicity: he wonders if she's still awake, although he'd be surprised if she wasn't, and where he will find her. They have reached a silent agreement not unlike the one from those first nights at her apartment: she sleeps with him, and they don't talk about it. Despite this arrangement, she is never waiting for him and she is never in his room until the absolute last moment; she waits until he seeks her out – and he does – and then they make their way to his room together. Everything about their relationship seems strange to him these days because it feels as though they are suspended in a place that is not quite friends, and not quite lovers: he wakes in the mornings to find them wrapped around each other in various intimate ways, only to spend the rest of the day pretending as if it never happened. They are closer, more open with each other than they have been any time in the last two years, and yet there is something between them that neither of them has tried to identify or set aside. He has no idea why or when they reached this impasse. He wants to bridge that final gap, to sever that string that keeps them suspended and motionless so that they can rush headlong into lovers' territory, but he is afraid of pushing her. She is wary of him and he knows it; he respects that, he respects her, so he keeps himself in check no matter how badly he wants to do just the opposite. She needs his support and his friendship so that is what he gives her, and hopes that one of these days she'll decide that she wants more from him -because he is ready to give it.

There is no uncertainty left in him: he wants Felicity, and he wants her enough to wait for her.

His drive takes him almost an hour, and he can just hear the grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway chiming the two o'clock hour as he lets himself quietly into the manor. There is really no need for the stealth, because he's already heard the sounds of the television floating toward him from the living room; he slips out of his jacket and hangs it up, stows his motorcycle helmet and then makes his way toward the sound.

Upon turning the corner, he is surprised to see that it isn't Felicity curled up on the couch, but Kylie: she's staring intently at the television screen, and their blonde friend is nowhere to be seen.

"What are you doing awake still?" he asks softly.

The dark head turns to glance back at him over one petite shoulder before returning back to the screen. He interprets this as an invitation to join her so he moves into the room, and as he comes around the couch he glances to see that Felicity is, indeed, present: she's stretched out along the length of the couch, her head in Kylie's lap, and she is sound asleep. He can't help the little smile that upturns one side of his mouth.

"Didn't have the heart to wake her," Kylie answers him finally. "And the movie's not done."

"What are you watching?"

"Sense and Sensibility." He must have given her a blank look, because she clarifies. "Jane Austen."

He nods, not because he knows the movie but because he remembers clearly Felicity's love for the author and because even the most illiterate person has at least heard of  _Pride and Prejudice_.

"Long day?" Kylie queries. "You look tired."

He sighs. "Long and disappointing," he admits.

"Is everything alright?"

Oliver pauses for a long moment to consider her question. There are many answers he could give, many ways that he could interpret and spin the truth, but he wants to be as honest as he can with this woman without giving anything away. He likes Kylie, not just because of her obvious devotion to Felicity but because she is a sagacious and spirited sort of woman that he has come to respect through their limited time together.

"I don't know; but I hope so. How long has she been asleep?"

"Maybe two hours? Not as long as I'd wish."

They fall into a protracted silence, and Oliver's attention is drawn toward the voices he can hear on the television. He doesn't know the premise of the story but he watches the characters anyway, happy to be drawn from the weight of his thoughts and fears. There are two women on the screen, one of whom has very curly hair in a shade of gold just a little darker than Felicity's, and his mind is automatically drawn to thoughts of said woman. He is glad to find her asleep, glad to know that she finally feels safe enough to fall asleep when he isn't there because it means that she is at least starting to heal and move on. At least, he hopes that she has; it eats away at him to see her so diminished and frightened.

"Do you know what I love about people, Ollie?"

Kylie's voice is gentle and it grabs his attention almost as much as her words do; it's only when he looks to her face that he realizes that his gaze had wandered away from the television to focus on Felicity.

"What?" he prods.

"They don't make sense." She smiles as if she's told him a great joke, but if she has then he has missed the punch line.

"I don't follow."

"I saw you on the news – months ago, now – and I don't remember what the story was, but I remember thinking that you were a person I was very glad not to know."

Her words are strangely lacking in any sort of censure or judgment, and yet he feels exactly that: in the next instant, he realizes that the feelings are arising strictly from his own sense of deeply ingrained shame, because he hates the persona that he has to portray and how wildly opposed it is from the way he now sees himself.

Kylie isn't finished.

"And then I met you," she continues, "and I was confused. You were so different from that person on the television; it was like you were a completely different person. You tolerated my teasing, were even gracious about it, and I was … surprised. And then, the way you acted around Lis, the way you treated her … whoever that man is on the news, that isn't the real Oliver Queen."

She's giving him such a shrewd look that a lesser man would squirm, but Oliver is not that man. There is a tightening in his chest, because he fears that she has somehow made the connection or at least some deduction of why he's always out late and why he might need a cover, but he is reassured by her next words.

"I may not like your television persona, but I like you, Ollie; the real you. Even if you are a bit broody and intense."

A choked sort of chuckle makes it way out of him and he arches an eyebrow at the woman seated across from him. "Broody and intense?"

"Oh yeah," and she grins widely at him. "You could be the poster boy for both. And that's another reason why people don't make sense, because on the surface the two of you shouldn't work."

Kylie glances away from him then to look down at the woman asleep in her lap, and the smile she gives her speaks to Oliver of a true and abiding love that could only come from years of friendship and shared lives. He resolves then and there to ask Felicity more about her friendship with this woman, because he has the feeling that they have known each other much longer than he's guessed. This is probably the friend that got her through the loss of her mother.

"Despite your differences, you two seem good together. Or maybe it's because of your differences that you work; who knows. Either way, I've seen the way you two are around each other."

"We're not …" He doesn't finish the sentence, because he's not sure what he was going to deny. They weren't what? Dating? No, but they were close. Weren't they?

"Not what?" she prompts.

"I don't know," he admits, passing a hand over his face and feeling suddenly tired.

To his surprise, Kylie smiles again. "Isn't it a bitch?"

"What?"

"Everything; life in general. Wanting something, and being terrified that reaching for it will somehow ruin it; feeling like you can't possibly take a chance, and knowing that if you don't nothing will ever change. It's stressful as shit."

"And exactly how stressful is shit?" he deadpans, and then they are both laughing quietly. "I get the feeling that you're younger than I am, Kylie, but you're very wise."

"Oh, I'm a genius – didn't I tell you?"

She grins and winks, but he's not sure if she's trying to tell him that she's joking about being a genius or that she understands that genius doesn't necessarily have anything to do with wisdom. He opens his mouth to ask her and then closes it almost immediately, because he actually likes not knowing.

"Lis," Kylie calls then, putting a light hand on her friend's shoulder. "Wake up."

Two blue eyes flutter open hesitantly, and he takes it as a good sign that she doesn't jump away from the pressure on her shoulder or instantly throw herself off the couch in a panic.

"Sorry, didn't mean to fall asleep," she mumbles, and then catches sight of him.

Felicity pulls herself up off of her friend's lap, yawning as she does so. She's starting to look better, he thinks, more rested and like herself, and he is glad of it.

"Go on," Kylie encourages them, waving toward the stairs. "Go to bed, I'll shut everything off."

Oliver is more tired than he'd realized and the thought of his bed is suddenly very inviting. His eyes automatically gravitate toward Felicity, who has taken to her feet, and he wordlessly holds out his hand. There is the tiniest bit of hesitation before she takes it, but takes it she does, sliding one smooth hand into his much larger calloused one; they make their way toward the stairs side by side.

"Anything?" she questions once they cross the threshold into his room.

He doesn't need to ask her what she means. "Not yet."

He can't bring himself to say more on the subject, but he still refuses to admit that he's failed. Giving up is not an option, so there is no reason for him to tell her that their searches have been fruitless: he'll simply keep looking, everywhere, and for as long as it takes.

"Oliver …"

"I'm going to find him, Felicity."

She's giving him a look that he can't decipher and he's too tired to spend long trying. He turns to his dresser and retrieves a pair of cotton pajama pants, and without thinking sets to stripping out of his jeans and t-shirt on autopilot. His thoughts are nonsensical in his exhaustion, jumping from his inability to find the man he's looking for to his conversation with Kylie. When he turns back to his bed, Felicity is already burrowed under the covers. Her pale hair is a stark contrast to his darker bed sheets.

He forgoes a shirt and almost collapses into the bed next to her; it's only as the tension in his body releases against the mattress that he realizes how much he'd been carrying. He's too tired to roll onto his side, but he's not too tired to be wildly aware of the feel of Felicity's body as she presses herself into her side: her head comes to rest on his chest, over his heartbeat, and one slim arm drapes itself across the exposed skin of his chest. The arm beneath her curls up and around her waist, holding her against him, and he instinctively tips his head toward hers until he feels her hair against his cheek.

They should talk about this; they need to talk about this - but not tonight.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have many ideas for our wonderful pair, but I have decided that because of the current state of things - both in the story, and in my daily life - that this would be a good place to end this story. I AM planning on a sequel, and I really will do my best to get it out there, but I can't make any promises on when that will be. Thank you all SO much for your kind reviews and encouragement - I had no idea this story would be so well received, but you've made writing it really rewarding. You've been so fantastic that I PROMISE to do my very best to get the sequel up and running as soon as I can.
> 
> (EDIT: these are the original author's notes from when the story was written. The sequel to this is up and mostly finished and I will be moving it over from my ff.net account next).

"I don't feel right, leaving you."

"You don't have much of a choice, Ky," she responds. "You have a job and a life somewhere else."

"Well, what if I moved back to the city?"

Felicity's hand stops halfway to her mouth, a hearty bite of Cheerios perched haphazardly on the spoon; Kylie returns her gaze openly from across the table. She's too shocked to make an immediate reply.

"But you hate the city," she finally manages.

"I don't  _hate_  it," her friend corrects. "And even if I did, that wouldn't matter. You need me, Lis."

"Kylie …"

"Don't try to deny it. And I want to be here for you, all the time, not just when I can take time off work to make the drive."

Felicity drops her spoon back into the bowl without taking the prepared bite. This was not a conversation she was expecting to have, and she can't immediately decide what she thinks about Kylie's proposal. She misses her friend, of course, and would love to slip back into the daily camaraderie that comes from such close proximity with friends; therein, however, lays the problem. Part of the reason she has been able to keep Oliver's identity – and her involvement with his vigilante persona – a secret is because her life is so insulated from everyone else. Kylie is the only person with whom Felicity is close enough to notice the strange hours she keeps, or how decidedly little time she spends at home; if she moves back to the city, how will she balance the two halves of her work?

This train of thought takes her back to a night that feels like a lifetime ago, when she was trying on shoes for a date that had never happened. She remembers professing to Oliver that she wasn't sure that she should even attempt to start a new relationship when so much of her life is cast in shadow, and must remain that way: how much more difficult will it be if the relationship is not a new one, but a long standing one? Would it even be possible to keep such a secret from Kylie? The woman is a genius, and even if by some stroke of extreme luck she didn't find out, Felicity doesn't see how their relationship wouldn't undergo the huge strain required to keep such a secret.

"Lis?"

Kylie's question pulls her from the chaos of her thoughts.

"You don't look very happy about it," the other woman muses.

"It's not that, Ky; of course I'd love to have you close again! It's just … the idea of you uprooting your life just for me makes me feel … guilty. And what about your job? You love your job!"

"It's just a job, Lis, I can get another one. I can't get another you."

Touched, Felicity gives her friend a lopsided smile and reaches across the table to take one of her friend's slim hands in hers.

"I'm …" She'd been about to say 'not going anywhere', but it occurs to her how very false those words are, so she redirects. "It's a lot to give up for one person, Ky."

"No it's not," she answers firmly. "I haven't made an absolute decision yet, it's just something I've been thinking about. I just wanted to see what you thought about it."

"I think you should think it over some more, and if – after rational, intense thought – you still want to do it, then I will gladly help you apartment hunt."

Kylie smiles, and Felicity thinks it looks a little something like relief. "Good. Now finish your soggy cereal."

They lapse into a comfortable silence, but Felicity's thoughts are roiling: only moments ago she had been deliberating over the current state (or non-state) of her relationship with Oliver, and now those thoughts are fighting for room in the presence of Kylie's lately shared idea. How is one person to be expected to juggle such a mess of opposing elements? She has stepped into a grey area with Oliver that hides somewhere between the lines of lovers and friends; she still works for his family company during the day and moonlights as one of his sidekicks at night; and now, if Kylie moves back to Starling City, she will have to juggle all of those things with maintaining the secret of what she does with most of her nights from the person who is closest to her in the world.

Well, perhaps it's more accurate to say  _one_  of the people closest to her, because she has to admit that Oliver has been getting closer (and she doesn't think he's going to stop now). This must be a little like what Oliver feels with the two halves of his life, and she wonders that he hasn't gone certifiably insane yet.

"Where's Ollie?" Kylie asks then, as if clairvoyant.

"Gone. He had to take care of some orders for the club or something."

Which, surprisingly, is true.

"Damn, I didn't get to say goodbye. Tell him for me?"

"Course."

Felicity releases a silent sigh and gives up on finishing her cereal. Today is, unfortunately, Monday: she's going back to work, and Kylie has officially run out of paid leave and is returning home. While she will miss her friend, she's also a little glad to finally be able to return to the foundry and feel like she's useful again. She's also not upset to be going back to work, because she does miss her computers and her quiet little office. Her boss has been very gracious and understanding in the face of current events, but it will do Felicity good to go back to work and slip into a routine once again.

Although she does hate the 'up-before-six-so-she-can-be-to-work-by-eight' part of the routine.

Kylie follows her upstairs so they can chat as Felicity prepares for the day, helping her pick out a nice outfit to wear that she insists will make the pretty blonde in the IT department the talk of the office; Felicity grins and goes with it, because it certainly can't hurt if she can cover a little of her still present anxiety with clothes that will help her feel confident. She pulls her hair back into the low ponytail that she hasn't worn in many days and then spends one long, drawn out moment trying to decide what to do for her vision; with a determined sort of sigh she picks up her glasses and slides them on for the first time since that night in her apartment.

Slowly but surely, she thinks, she is making progress.

Well, progress on this front, anyway; she still hasn't made any progress on the Oliver front, and perhaps it is the comfort of slipping back into a routine that makes her boldly promise herself, then and there, that she is going to have a very serious conversation with Oliver – tonight. She is tired of being in limbo and they can't keep living this way, so she has decided that they will come to a decision, no matter what sort it is.

She is an adult and so is Oliver, and she doesn't think she's been imagining the way he watches her or the decidedly possessive way he holds her at night; a relationship between them would certainly be chaotic, she knows, but she is coming to understand that chaos is the very nature of life. Perhaps he still has feelings for Laurel, but if he wants a relationship with her enough – if his feelings for her are strong enough – to make him (basically) choose her instead, then Felicity is ready to dive in as well. There is every possibility that things will end badly, or at least less than happy, but there is also the possibility that they will be spectacular together. She wants the chance to find out, either way, and she has spent far too long trying to convince herself that going after what she wants is a bad idea; she refuses to be afraid of the possibility of happiness any longer.

That's the crux of the problem, she has come to realize: she is not afraid of what will happen if a relationship doesn't work between them, but what will happen if it  _does_. No more: she will face the chaos of it all and, no matter the outcome, she will survive.

When she says goodbye to Kylie not long after and promises to call her soon, Felicity makes her way into work with a determination and clarity of purpose that burns brightly in her breast.

She wants Oliver, and she wants him enough to go after him.

* * *

Digg's footsteps ring against the metal stairs as he makes his way out of the basement. She listens as he disappears and then lets out a quiet sigh when she can't hear him anymore; it was nice to see Digg again after what feels like ages, but her mind is full of thoughts that she can't shake, and would rather not share. At least, not with Digg.

Oliver is still out in the city, probably looking for some trace of the man responsible for the attacks on her life, but she has a feeling that there's nothing to be found. His words, the conviction in his voice when he'd practically sworn that he would find that man … she knows that he won't give up, just like she knows that he won't find anything. Whoever this Lord Tennyson person is, he is well hidden and has apparently chosen to back off from his search for her and the little book – at least for now. The idea of him terrifies her: knowing that there is someone out there with as much power as he obviously has, and that said person wants something from her … she's not sure how to deal with that knowledge. The thing that she's come to understand, however, is that she not only has to deal with it, she now has to live with it. She has to accept the facts and find a way to move on with her life, while she still can … while she still has a life.

Felicity is staring at the computer screens in front of her, but she's not seeing the images and information displayed there: she's seeing the events of her life of the last few weeks, watching as everything around her becomes impossibly complicated and tangled and … confusing. She can remember that night she'd stood outside Verdant, Oliver's pulse steady beneath her fingers and his breath warm against her cheeks … the sound of the bat striking her attacker's head … the taste of ice cream on Oliver's tongue and his broad hand cradling her head. All of it seems disconnected, as if each event was a separate dream from years ago that she's just beginning to remember, and yet she understands how each moment was drawing her forward – no, catapulting her into the future that has now become the present. These are the moments and memories that are not tinged with the fear of death, of nothingness; these, and those like them, are what she has to remind her that she is still alive. Oliver, Digg, Kylie … these are the people that matter most to her now, the people that form the pillars of support that she has leaned so heavily upon in the last weeks.

In a strange way, the man who ordered the hits on her – because what else could they have been? – has changed her life in ways that she would never have expected; he has had a very profound effect on her, and one that she's certain wasn't intended. Yes, she is having to learn how to live with the constant and uncomfortable fear of dying, but that same fear is also making her realize a truth that she's not certain she would have come to otherwise: she does not want to be one of those people who dies before they are dead. Her fear of death does not make it any less of a certainty – everyone dies – but in the last few days, she has come to realize that there is something more terrifying than the thought of no longer existing: the thought of not living while she's alive.

"Digg gone for the night?"

It really is her fault for being so entrenched in her thoughts that she didn't hear him, but that doesn't stop her from squeaking in surprise and springing away from the desk, the chair skittering away from her to collapse on the floor somewhere behind her.

Oliver is standing not far behind her – well, in front of her now that she's spun around to face him – and there is a light in his eyes that she knows is laughter, even if his face is impassive. The hand pressed over her heart can feel the way it's racing, and it takes her a moment to catch her breath.

"I think you like making me squeal," she accuses. She doesn't think anything of the comment until one of his blonde eyebrows arch in a look that she can't (or won't) name, and then she realizes how suggestive it sounded and she's blushing against her will. "Hand me one of your arrows."

"Why?"

"So I can smack you with it."

To her surprise, Oliver smiles and shakes his head in bemusement. He places his bow and quiver carefully on one of the long metal tables and then goes about pulling off his gloves. "Digg?" he reminds her.

"Yes, he went home," she answers. She's across the room retrieving the chair and has just bent to pick it up when something glints against the artificial lighting, catching her eye. Curious, she reaches underneath the nearest table and grasps something cool and metal. When she pulls out her hand, there's nothing to do but laugh.

"What?"

She pulls the chair up and then turns to face Oliver, a small silver spoon in her hand. Chuckling, she waves it lightly through the air, and watches the smile that blooms on Oliver's face as he makes the connection.

"I thought it was lost forever."

"Oh, I dunno, things usually have a way of ending up where they're supposed to be."

She plops ungracefully into the office chair and then looks up to find a very serious Oliver watching her. Something in the way his eyes hold hers brings her back to the thoughts that have occupied her mind all day, and she is oddly nervous. A few hours ago, she'd decided that she wanted to open the door on a relationship with this man; now that he's standing in front of her, she's not sure she has the courage to broach the subject with him. What if she's wrong, and he doesn't want a relationship? What if he's decided that it was too complicated? What if she has missed her chance?

"I have something for you."

His words are so unexpected that she's not sure she heard him correctly. "What?"

Oliver ignores her and moves away. He opens one of his wooden cases that she's never asked about and retrieves something, and when he moves back toward her there is a plain brown package in his hand. Felicity pulls herself to her feet without knowing why, a strange pressure tightening her chest as she catalogs his approach; he doesn't stop until he's close – very close – and then he's handing her his ware without a word.

The object is heavier than she was expecting. She makes herself look away from Oliver and down at the thing in her hands; her mind is blank as she pulls the paper away, and then the thoughts explode across her mind like splashes of paint on a canvas.

The leather is dark brown, scratched in a few places and worn, but smooth and beautiful; one of the top corners is broken and bent inward. The plain paper falls away, but her eyes are on the book: a first edition copy of  _Great Expectations_. Her copy – her last gift from her mother. When she pulls open the cover, she gingerly rifles through the pages: they're all there, although some show the evidence of what they've been through.

"I wasn't sure books could be re-bound," Oliver is saying, his voice soft and close. "Especially ones as damaged as yours was. But I figured it was worth a try, because something …"

She knows there are tears in her eyes, she can feel them just waiting to fall, but she doesn't care. "Oliver."

Her voice is a whisper but it stops him midsentence, and then those intense eyes are staring deep into hers. The words won't come, because there aren't any – not really – that can adequately express what he has done for her. She pushes up onto her toes, leaning into the heat of his chest until she feels the pressure of his lips against hers, and the moment she does the tears start to fall. One step, small, and then she is being folded into big arms and held against him; the hand that is not holding her book snakes around his waist. There is no pulling away from this kiss, from this moment and this man; there isn't a single part of her that wants to try.

A lack of air is what finally drives them apart and she is mildly surprised to find one of his hands on her cheek when they do so. She had no idea it was there.

"Do you remember when I told you that we couldn't be friends?" she asks softly.

"You said it was too complicated."

"Well it doesn't even come close to how complicated this will be – you know that, right? I'm a mess – hell, my whole life is a mess, and yours isn't really all that better. All of this isn't just going to disappear because we want it to, and it isn't going to be any easier now that …"

His lips are an effective silencer when they descend upon hers quite suddenly, but she finds that she doesn't mind this sort of interruption to her rambling. In fact, maybe she'll take to rambling more often if this is the sort of reaction she can expect from now on …

"We have a lot to talk about," he says when he pulls away, punctuating his statement by sneaking another quick peck.

"Like the fact that I need to find a new apartment."

He hums against her lips when she mimics his action and presses a kiss against his lips. "Tomorrow."

"Did you even hear me?" she challenges, but he's wiping the tears from her cheeks and she's already starting to smile.

"Yes. New apartment. We can talk about all of that tomorrow; we can talk about everything. Later. Right now, I'm tired and I'm ready to call it a night."

"You do kind of stink, Mr. Queen."

He glares and immediately steps away from her, but she can see the laughter trying to make its way out of him. She grins innocently, her heart lighter than it has been in weeks. All the hours she'd spent today thinking of a way to broach the subject with him – all the hours she'd spent thinking about the sudden changes in her life – and when the moment had come they'd just sort of fallen into it as if they'd always known it would come. Perhaps, in a way, they had: from the moment they'd realized that they were stuck in that strange limbo – maybe even from the moment he'd found her crouched in that corner – perhaps they had always been headed here.

"You coming?"

Felicity smiles at the tall man standing a few feet away from her, unable to contain the emotion that she'd been named for.

Oh yes, things definitely had a way of ending up  _exactly_  where they were supposed to be.

"You know what I have a craving for?" she queries, bumping his shoulder with her own as they make their way toward the door.

"What?"

"Ice cream."

She feels one wide, warm hand wrap itself around her smaller one, fingers interlocking with her own, and smiles again – she had no idea Oliver Queen was the hand-holding type.

 


End file.
